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It’s the bleakest winter Hermes can remember, and he has seen countless winters come and go. He watches as the fields turn to ice, as fertile land becomes barren and lifeless, as crops stop growing and the world itself becomes stunted and shrouded in the looming shadow of enveloping storm clouds. He sees the snow suffocate the earth, smother it with its devastating embrace and steal the life from the beating heart of the world. As the familiar surroundings are transformed into a hostile wasteland, Hermes can’t help but think of Eurydice, the young girl he knew for such a short time, before similarly cruel weather forced her to the brink of desperation and snatched her soul away far too soon. 

Hermes tries not to think about her often. He’s never been an overly sentimental man (it’s not a god’s place to get attached to mortals, who will be dead in the blink of an immortal eye), but the tale of her tragedy softens the old god’s heart. He’s not without compassion, despite what he once believed about himself. Thinking of Eurydice and her terrible fate causes his thoughts to circle back to Orpheus; Hermes doesn’t like to think about Orpheus any more, either. He learned early in his eternal life that death was usually the kindest option, that it is those who survive that suffer twofold, tormented by loss and memories of a time when they held the world in their hands. 

He doesn’t like to think about the boy, locked away in that hut with nothing but his guilt and regret for company. Orpheus made a mistake, sure, but it is human to err, and Hermes would never have expected perfection from a mortal boy. It was a testament to Orpheus’ loving nature that he had turned around, that he had attempted to reassure Eurydice or get another glimpse of the girl he loved so deeply. Humans are not omniscient, they are flawed and emotional and sometimes they forget the rules imposed on them by higher powers, just as Orpheus had turned his head without thinking of the consequences, so desperate to fulfil the goal of his journey and see his lover’s face again. 

Hermes knows that Orpheus is torturing himself. That is why he prefers not to think about him and his ill-fated lover, as the seasons change and the sky outside resembles that forsaken night when Orpheus crawled out of hell with no lover by his side, with bloodied skin and trembling hands, collapsing to his knees and sobbing as someone who has lost everything they hold dear, someone who has had their world ripped away from them. It’s not that Hermes is emotionless, more that he doesn’t wish to dwell on such things, to picture Orpheus now and the state he must be in. To do so makes him feel a sense of duty tugging at him, a suggestion that he should check on the boy.

Hermes doesn’t feel the cold, but he knows what it does to a body. He knows what it does to a mind. He knows that the raging blizzard will be haunting Orpheus too, that he will be looking out his window and remembering how close he came to saving her, how everything was ruined right at the last second. Hermes doesn’t know how strongly mortals feel things, but he knows that Orpheus’ emotions are intense, that the remorse must be destroying him, that when he hears this wintry wind blowing he will remember the first night he helped Eurydice shelter from it and how permanent she became in his life after. Hermes can’t imagine how lonely this winter must be for Orpheus, but he decides he should visit, just to lessen the burden.

He wouldn’t admit it, but his nerves are a little frayed. There’s something prickling the back of his mind, a frightened voice that tells him he needs to go see Orpheus, if nothing more than to calm his uncharacteristic anxiety. The boy could use cheering up, not that anything seems to cheer him up these days. There was a time when Orpheus had the most infectious smile around, when his optimism would light up a room, when Hermes had admired the young boy who made the most out of the less-than-ideal lot he’d been drawn in life and always found something to be happy about. He’s ashamed to admit it, but Hermes hasn’t seen much of Orpheus since he returned from his failed mission, and on the occasions he has seen him, Orpheus seemed a shell of his former self.

Hermes hasn’t been avoiding him. If anything, Orpheus has been avoiding him. But it’s true that Hermes should’ve made more of an effort to drag the boy out of his rut, to cease the wallowing in self-loathing and get him to see the sun again, to show him the beauty of spring and the balance his song had managed to restore. Hermes shouldn’t have allowed Orpheus to isolate himself, to hide away in a room with nothing but his own poisoned mind to berate him. He should've made more of an effort, should've taken notice of the warning signs that Orpheus was slipping away.

It's been a week since Hermes last saw Orpheus. The poor boy had looked so ashen and unwell he'd been practically grey. Hermes had tried to give him a drink, just to get some colour back in his face, but the boy had looked ill at the suggestion and had insisted he was okay. Looking back, Hermes should've been more persistent. He'd assured Orpheus it was fine when the boy had apologised for not being able to perform, had said his voice wasn't feeling up to par and that he hadn't had any inspiration to write new songs.

Orpheus hasn't had the energy to do much after he lost Eurydice. 

It is out of fatherly responsibility that Hermes starts the familiar route to the small house Orpheus had once shared with Eurydice. The wind is picking up, wild around his ears, howling like the mourning call of a forsaken lover. As a god, he isn't bothered by such trivial things, but can imagine how dangerous this cold would be to a boy as physically and emotionally frail as Orpheus. He should go by, just to make sure his windows are secure, that no draft is creeping in. Orpheus won't mind, will appreciate the thought; he's always been the sweetest boy, so grateful for all of Hermes’ work (especially since he recognises that parenting doesn't come naturally to the god).

The house is quiet, which Hermes was expecting. The reality he lives in now is far removed from the one in the not too distant past, where the sounds of Orpheus’ brainstorming and rehearsing could be heard, where Eurydice would applaud and encourage him. There's an eerie silence that feels so out of place in a home that was once bursting with music, no lights on within, and no sign of movement. Hermes doesn’t bother knocking, knowing all too well that Orpheus will be too deep in his dramatic poetic sorrow to answer. Besides, he knows the door isn’t locked anyway; although Eurydice always pleaded with Orpheus to add a lock to keep at bay her fears of the weather (which she had always fled, spent her whole life staying one step ahead of) from invading their sanctuary, they had never found enough money to do so. Not that it mattered anyway, now that Eurydice was gone and Orpheus had seen the absolute worst of the world, leaving him with nothing left to be afraid of. 

“I’m coming in.” Hermes announces, not expecting a reply.

He doesn’t receive one. 

Inside, the house looks like a museum. A shrine to a girl who is no more. Eurydice’s thick coat is still hanging on the back of a wonky-legged chair; her chipped mug is still sitting on the side waiting to be rinsed; her side of the bed is still made, forever waiting to be slept in. Nothing has been touched, and a layer of thin dust is beginning to settle over these relics from a different time. The water in the sink is filthy, the fireplace filled with nothing more than the charred husks of logs that burned out days ago. There’s a vase on the table, filled with flowers that would once have been red roses (no doubt conjured by Orpheus’ magical singing), which have now withered and browned, the petals falling on the table like a scattering of snow. The scene is upsetting, but not surprising - Orpheus always had a tendency to neglect himself, too distracted by his songs, or in this case, his grief. The boy must be holed away in here, rotting like the flowers he created.

The stillness remains, like Hermes has reached the eye of the hurricane. The wind shakes the walls, rain puddling in the corners of the room, but the house feels like a bubble that has been left behind by the passing of time, forgotten by the laws of the universe. The noticeable lack of Orpheus is starting to get alarming, as Hermes searches every inch of the tiny building and is still yet to locate the boy he has grown to love like his own blood relative. It was once impossible to miss him, the telltale hum of his beautiful voice and the strum of the lyre revealing his location, but Hermes is met with nothing but the sound of his own breath, which crystallises in the frigid air. There is no hint that Orpheus is here, nor that he has been recently. Now that Hermes looks closely, it isn’t just Eurydice’s side of the bed that looks pristine and undisturbed, and the age of the clutter around the sink suggests that nobody has eaten for a while. It is then that Hermes begins to piece the heartbreaking clues together, then that he sees the damning evidence:

Orpheus’ lyre is here, the instrument that Hermes bought the boy as a present, that accompanied him everywhere and became the soundtrack of the lives of all of the patrons of his bar. The instrument that became a fifth limb, inseparable from Orpheus, which he could make the most wonderful art with, which he would never leave behind unless he thought he’d have no use for it out in the wilderness. The surface is still shiny, fingerprints still visible, and Hermes can almost hear its haunting melody now. Orpheus wouldn’t go anywhere without it, and never has in all the time Hermes has known him; he remembers the little boy he adopted, almost starved to death, barely brave enough to talk, who had latched onto the instrument and sang in a way Hermes had never heard. The thought of Orpheus being out there somewhere, unable to ward off the cold with a song to summon warmth to his vulnerable mortal body, unable to protect himself from a storm even after he’d watched one drive his lover underground. The stupid boy, too blind to the ways of the world, too consumed by his despair, hadn’t thought about the repercussions.

Or perhaps he had. Perhaps this was his intention .

Gods don’t cry for mortals. They don’t care about people whose lives are just a grain of sand in the eternity they witness. They see death, are unfazed by it, as it is a mortal concern, an abstract concept to them. But Hermes welcomed Orpheus into his life, let himself be charmed by the innocent little boy who everyone else had abandoned, and therefore became forever ensnared with him. He got too involved and tangled his heart with this boy’s, raised him like his own when he found him on his doorstep, did everything he could even when he knew he wasn’t cut out for protecting such a fragile creature, even when he doubted himself. Hermes had been selected, the only one Calliope trusted enough to nurture the little life she herself wasn’t in a position to commit to. Hermes grew fond of Orpheus, and thought of him as his son . Perhaps this was his divine punishment for going against the unspoken rule of the gods, for daring to love that boy.

To lose Orpheus now is to lose part of himself. He thinks of all the milestones he passed with Orpheus: the day the boy gave up asking when his mother would return, the day he accepted Hermes as his guardian, the day he first heard him sing, the slow and messy process of Orpheus growing from a wide-eyed boy into an awkward young man, his first song in front of an audience in Hermes’ bar, how quickly his amazing talent secured him a spot as a regular on the stage. He thinks of the day Eurydice first walked in, the day Orpheus fell in love and unknowingly cemented their shared doom. Hermes has never felt agony like this before, like his heart is being wrenched from his chest still beating and bleeding; this must be how mortals feel all the time, how Orpheus felt the second he turned around and realised the gravity of his error when he watched Eurydice’s face fall and the ground devour her.

Hermes knows he is too late. Orpheus is out there in a storm too violent for any mortal to survive, a storm just like the one that claimed Eurydice. There’s something poetic about the irony, and the thought of poetry only intensifies the pain. 

Hermes has guided many souls to the underworld. It’s part of his job, to help those who wander reach their final destination, and he’s never had an issue with it before. The key is to stay objective, to not get invested in individuals' sorry stories, to not become too touched by their woes. Mortals are emotional creatures, weak ones too. They bruise easily, they die easier. Hermes listens to them, a friendly ear for their last journey, but he doesn’t let their words affect him - most of the time, they tell him all the people they wish they’d said goodbye to, they tell him about their first love, they tell him about all the things they wanted to achieve. Sometimes they beg him for extra time, as if he possesses the power to choose who is worthy, who deserves another try. Usually, they complain about the miseries of their mundane mortal life, and Hermes pretends to be sympathetic, when all he can think is how narcissistic a species they are that they would go to the grave complaining about such petty things. 

He struggles to maintain the professional level of distance, the false empathy without any real sign of caring , when he sees Orpheus.

The boy’s skin is so pale it’s almost blue. His fingers are blackened at the tips, his knuckles split and caked with dried blood. That red bandana (the one Hermes gave him several winters ago to warm his neck, the gift that was supposed to always remind him of the loving family he’d stumbled into) is tied around his wrist, muddied and torn and frozen solid, as stiff and rigid as Hermes’ spine becomes when he takes in the sight. Those eyes that always shone so brightly are now deep and sorrowful, and there’s no trace of the lopsided smile that would always lighten Hermes’ mood, nothing left of the sweet boy who risked his life to save Eurydice. Orpheus looks ghostly, which Hermes supposes is appropriate, considering the fact that he is dead.

He is dead. 

It is in total silence that Hermes guides his son onto the train that will banish him from this world forever. He has never known Orpheus to be so lost for words; that boy had a blessed tongue once, could weave a spell with his poems, would always have some witty comeback for when Hermes tried to argue with him. The only time Hermes can recall Orpheus being in such a battle with his words was when he met Eurydice, when the emotion got to him and he stumbled and tripped over all the syllables that should’ve flowed smoothly. Back then, Hermes had found it adorable, the way the poet had been reduced to a stuttering wreck by a girl. Now, he wants nothing more than to hear the boy’s voice again, but knows that to do so would break him. 

No man, not even a god, wants to hear their son’s corpse speak.

Orpheus won’t look him in the eye. He stares at his own shoes, which are soaked as if he’s waded in an icy lake. Hermes doesn’t know if he should say something, if he should shatter this leaden atmosphere; he knows he’ll regret it if he doesn’t get things off his chest, if he doesn’t tell the boy how much he truly loved stepping into the role of father (a role he never foresaw himself playing, but which enriched his life, which moulded him into the man he is today). But the god is tongue-tied, looking at the emaciated boy in front of him, wondering why he didn’t intervene and put a stop to this before it spiralled out of control, wondering if this is like the sense of failure Orpheus felt when he turned around. Of course it is. This is what it is to lose a loved one, something which Hermes has heard from countless aching souls on this very train, but something he has never known for himself. It is a feeling he wishes he didn’t know. 

It’s Orpheus who speaks first. His voice is so small, so meek, so full of unshed tears, and Hermes can hear the depths of his pain, but still can’t help being angry. Did the boy not consider anyone might be hurt by his selfish decision? Though, any rational part of the brain is easily destroyed by misery, as it tortures itself with ghosts and a million different scenarios in which the end isn’t one of catastrophe. Hermes doesn’t understand exactly, but he can see how Orpheus (whose entire life revolved around Eurydice, who had always felt like he was too much for people, but who felt utterly loved by her) would be defeated. It isn’t hard to realise that Orpheus is - was - a selfless boy, really, and that he would never have been able to continue in a world where it was his fault that Eurydice was trapped in hell.

The boy is still shivering, his teeth chattering, and Hermes can't help but be reminded of Eurydice, the half-dead condition she’d been in when she first entered his bar, and how Orpheus had sworn to never let her feel the cold again. Now, Hermes wants to wrap his boy in a blanket, to take him inside and sit him by the fire until his bones thaw. He wants to be a shoulder to cry on, be there to remind him that his life doesn’t have to stop just because someone else’s has, that there is still joy to be found in the arrival of the spring (which Orpheus brought back) and that Hermes will never desert him.

But it's too late for that.

“I'm sorry, Mister Hermes.” Orpheus says, his voice scratchy and tired but as lyrical as ever (but now it sings a sad song, a tragic one), “This - this wasn't meant to happen.”

Despite himself, Hermes scoffs. He's known Orpheus long enough to recognise a lie; the boy is so honest, so open, and lying doesn't come naturally. It scrunches his face and makes his eyes cloud over with shame, looking for anywhere to land other than Hermes, knowing that he will see right through him. Hermes has memorised every one of the boy’s mannerisms, to be able to read him like the back of his weathered hand, and he knows what Orpheus has done. He knows what led the boy to leave the haven of his home and freeze to death all alone. He knows that Orpheus is half a person without Eurydice, that he has been going mad blaming himself for her predicament, that this was a successful attempt to guarantee he will be reunited with her for good.

“Brother, I wasn't born yesterday. No one kills themselves by accident.” Hermes says.

Orpheus doesn’t look at him. But he sounds sincere when he says:

“I really am sorry.”

He knows it’s not proper, knows he shouldn’t be doing this, but Hermes makes an exception. This is his son who has died of a broken heart, who is on the edge of tears, who felt so truly hopeless after having his naivety (which Hermes always admired his endless capacity for) snatched away from him, so that he could see no other option than to join his wife down below. This is his son, and Hermes cannot have their last conversation be a formality, following the procedures that are expected of one helping departed souls to their resting place. That is the justification he gives himself as he reaches out and hugs Orpheus, so tightly it would push all the air out of the boy’s lungs (were he to still be breathing), feeling Orpheus’ icy skin against his own. He holds his only son as the boy begins to weep softly (Orpheus has always been soft, tender, too pure for this world, Hermes thinks), and he feels what can only be described as loss . 

He feels like a father who is losing his son, because that is what he is. 

“I’ve made this trip so many times, brother,” he says, “But I always hoped I’d never have to make it with you. ”

At this, Orpheus trembles harder. His frostbitten fingers are clutching Hermes’ jacket, as if it will make any difference, as if it will stop them from being parted. 

“I don’t wanna go,” He whimpers, so childlike, and it reminds Hermes of the nights the boy would wake screaming from nightmares, when they had not known each other long and Orpheus hadn’t adjusted to his new routine. But this time, he can’t pat his back and tell him it will all be over in the morning.

“I know, kid,” Hermes says, “But you ain’t got a choice.”

He should've thought it through more carefully, should've considered what death would mean for him before acting so impulsively.

“I’m sorry .” Orpheus says again, his eyes squeezed shut so tightly, like he can will this all away if he tries hard enough.

It was unrealistic. Hermes had always known that it was inevitable, that he would outlive all the mortals he knew, Orpheus included. But still, it was nice to dream. For a minute there, Orpheus had felt so permanent, this little lost puppy that Hermes had shown pity and been shadowed by ever since. It had truly felt like he would never go anywhere, that he would continue singing in the bar every evening until the end of time. And while Hermes had known this would happen eventually, it should not be now. The boy is barely twenty, not yet a man in the eyes of the law; he is yet to drink his first legal sip of alcohol, yet to raise a family of his own and know the blessing of children, yet to make a real career for himself, yet to experience first hand a full cycle of the seasons he brought back into tune. It’s wrong and cruel and there is nothing Hermes can do.

He must be the first god to ever feel totally powerless .

“I’da made you immortal if I could.” He says, “I often considered asking a favour from Olympus.”

“Mister Hermes...” Orpheus whispers, barely audible over the roaring engine of the train and the sadness constricting his throat.

“Save your breath, boy. I ain’t gonna cry, don’t worry.”

He doesn’t have any breath left, Hermes reminds himself.

And Hermes doesn’t cry, not even when the station rolls into view, not even when everything begins to feel very real, not even when he starts to panic; he is not ready for this to end, not ready to lay a headstone for Orpheus, not ready to forget the sound of the lyre and the softness of his smile, not ready to no longer be needed or relied on by anyone, to be woken in the middle of the night by a frantic boy asking for advice. Hermes never wanted to have a child, cursed Calliope when she offloaded her unwanted burden on his shoulders, but Hermes can’t imagine a reality without Orpheus, can’t imagine ever being so happy and proud if he’d never met this boy. He’s never admitted it aloud, but Hermes has come to love Orpheus more than he knew was possible, much to his own detriment, and he isn’t ready for this chapter of his life (and it has been the best one, in the thousands of years he has existed) to be over.

But Hermes is a god, and there are certain expectations, so he doesn’t cry when Orpheus says, “Thank you. For everything you did for me.”

“No, brother. I should be the one thanking you .” Hermes says.

And he lets go of his son.

Persephone sits and waits. She doesn’t know what she’s waiting for, but anticipation (even for nothing in particular) is better than watching the hands on the clock tick in slow motion. Every second down here feels like an hour; she doesn’t understand how other people do it, how they can resist the tempting call of drink. There’s nothing to do but sit and listen to your own thoughts echo inside your skull, really ruminate on your demons - and if there’s one thing she knows about the people surrounding her, it’s that leaving them with their internal monologue turned up to full volume is a recipe for disaster. After all, that inner critic is what pushed some of them here.

She swills the wine in her glass. She doesn’t have much of an appetite, drinking only for the sake of it, to stave off the boredom. She’s on better terms with her husband these days (by which she means simple conversations don’t devolve into a shouting match), but that doesn’t mean she wants to spend time with him. Time is one thing she has by the bucketful; it’s hardly precious, but that’s not to say she desires to waste it with Hades and his boring boasts about productivity and technological advances. She’d much rather be out there, feeling the rays of the sun kiss her skin, the grass under her feet, listening to laughter and song instead of the screeching rhythm of metal machinery. Persephone wasn’t made for this, doesn’t belong in the artificial light and the sweltering heat of molten iron, and the six months below ground she trudges through each year are an ordeal.

There’s not much to do down here. She tried making friends, but everyone is so depressing. No one wants to smile or laugh, no one has fun stories to share - they just talk about their relatives who they miss, or they try persuading her to let them ride the train to the surface just for one day. They bring her spirits down, and put her in a bitter mood which she then tries to drown with wine and other spirits she sourced from Hermes’ bar in the summertime . She chuckles to herself, knowing that none of these ghouls would appreciate the subtlety or comedic timing of that joke. She’s wasted down here, and it really does feel like for six months of the year she is wasting away, like there will be nothing left of her when it’s time for her to take the train and herald in the first buds of spring.

There's nothing to do but succumb to the monotony. Nothing else to do than drink to prevent herself being overcome by the sadness of it all. Persephone watches over that young girl, the one who always seems so on edge, like a bird poised to take flight, the one who stocks firewood up like it’s solid gold, even though she had no need for it down here, the one who was so almost given another shot at seeing the sunshine. There’s something of herself she sees in Eurydice, a battered and scarred girl who loved too strongly, who had everything to lose, who was failed in some way by her lover. It’s not the same, Persephone knows, to compare Hades to Orpheus, but it’s true that they both left their wives feeling unappreciated and lonely, it’s true that their priorities were skewed, it’s true that they didn’t look far enough into the future and predict the fallout of their mistakes. 

Perhaps that is why she feels responsible for the girl, more so than any of her husband’s other victims, because Eurydice shouldn’t be here. She should be under the sun, treading between flowers, no longer deathly afraid of the cold or paranoid that a storm will roll in unexpectedly, alive to experience the new harmony, the bridge her lover built between mortals and the natural world. Persephone sees a girl who is stranded in a land she doesn’t belong in, but who tries her best to push on. Eurydice is persistent, fierce-willed (Persephone imagines you have be strong to survive all by yourself in this world, to keep running ahead of the wind), and while she looked as though her spirit had been trampled the day that Orpheus fatefully locked eyes with her, she kept fighting. 

And perhaps that is why Persephone feels so affectionately towards her, because reason says this girl should’ve been crippled by the weight of her past, that she should be so downtrodden after a life of starving and stealing, after finally finding light and love and having it all snatched away, after being a plaything at nature’s mercy until she could handle no more, after making a deal with the devil incarnate and still being stuck in the gloom of the underworld. Logic dictates that Eurydice has been through too much, that she should be left invalid, destitute, unable to face the world that let her down so many times, that she should have no strength left in her, that she should be twisted and warped by all that she has seen. And the girl has always been cynical, a complete contrast to Orpheus’ approach of viewing everything through rose-tinted glasses, but she has not let herself become a monster, as anyone else in her situation (who had a weaker resolver than her) could so easily.

Persephone doesn’t know how this girl finds it in herself to open her eyes at all. She doesn’t know why she shows no interest in the reassuring numbness induced by alcohol, why she won’t drink away her sorrows with the goddess, but she respects it. She knows that Eurydice too is waiting, but for something specific , for the arrival of her lover. She also knows that Eurydice will wait forever, that she doesn’t want Orpheus to rush, that she wants him to stop and breathe in the springtime and live the life that he is lucky enough to still have. Because Eurydice isn’t angry, doesn’t hate him for what he did; if anything, Orpheus turning around reinforced his love for her, and the memory of that love is fuel for her now. She waits, knowing that when she eventually does see him again, she will be able to taste the sweetness of that love, to be nourished by it once more, but for enough time to have passed for the rawness of the pain to have subsided. 

She will wait for him, just as she did before, when he promised he would follow. Only this time, Eurydice is in no hurry. She can cope with the doubt and the dark and the tedium, as long as it means Orpheus is okay, that he is recovering and moving on with his life, that the kind boy who won her over and knocked down her walls is sharing that same beautiful heart with the rest of the world, giving them the gift of hope he gave to her.

But Persephone has spent enough summers above ground to know what mortals are like. And she has known Orpheus for years, ever since Hermes first found him (she had warned the god, told him to just leave the boy to fend for himself, told him that having such a temporary life rest in his immortal hands would only end in heartbreak). She knows that Orpheus doesn’t feel things by halves, that his emotions are powerful enough to knock him over, that his mind doesn’t work in the way most mortals’ do; he is sensitive and loving and he has also suffered, he has lived a life that has taught him to believe that he is too intense and that sooner or later everyone gives up on him. 

Persephone prays to be wrong, but she has been the closest thing to a mother in the boy’s life, and she knows that losing Eurydice could be the final straw for him, the last nail in his coffin. Orpheus had found his person, the only one who loved him for his strangeness and his softness, the only one who swore she would stay forever, and for him to be the one who sentenced her to this purgatory, for the roles to be reversed and him to be the one who abandoned someone he loved. It would be the highest form of punishment, leaving him all alone as atonement for his sin. It would be devastating.

And grief can cause the mind to wander. Grief can push people into predicaments they’d never normally be caught in. Grief can send mortals to the brink, too exhausted from hating themselves that they would throw it all away. 

So, Persephone waits. And when she sees him, she isn’t surprised. Disappointed, maybe, like a mother watching her boy reach his lowest point. A goddess watching an angel, adored by all he touched with his song, fall from grace. He can’t even look at her, his head hanging low, his features sunken and hollow, his body language screaming of surrender, the appearance of someone who simply couldn’t muster the effort to care. It tugs at her heart; this is the boy who always greeted her with a smile sunny enough to compensate for the omnipresent clouds in the sky, the boy who toasted her arrival and revered her even when she showed up late, the boy who she had watched reduce her mighty husband to a confused, cowering mess with a simple ballad. This is the boy who transformed lives, her own included, and all Persephone can think about is Hermes.

She told him this would happen, that mortals are too ruled by their hearts, that they are creatures who hurtle towards their own demise so rapidly it’s almost comedic. To say ‘I told you so’ would be evil, and she knows smugness is inappropriate when faced with this bedraggled spectre of a boy. She doesn’t trust her mouth, unsure whether to burst out laughing or break down crying. But when his withered legs give way at the threshold, she reaches out and takes his hand, which feels as though it has been carved from frosty rock. How could she be so monstrous? This is Orpheus, one of few mortals she genuinely cares for (one of few she sees as being good for anything other than a decent party), a boy who is about to destroy Eurydice again by being so impatient. 

Just as she predicted, he couldn’t endure the guilt. For once, she doesn’t feel happy about being right. 

“She’s been waiting,” Persephone tells the hunched figure whom she’d held in her arms as a wailing infant, who she’d believed was destined for greatness, “I’d just hoped we wouldn’t see you again so soon .”

Orpheus would know her anywhere, even in a world as foreign as this one. She is the reason his heart beats (or the reason it did ), she is the centre of the nightmares that have plagued him recently (the ones in which she is falling, in which he screams at himself not to turn around, but is powerless to change anything). She has consumed his every thought, remembering all the things he swore to her, all the ways he came up short, that hungry young girl who depended on him to show her that the world wasn’t as cruel as she believed, to convince her that everyone held the power to change the parts of it they didn’t agree with. There are so many ways he failed. And she is here, just in front of him, her expression shifting as she notices him.

“It’s you.” She says softly, as if she can’t quite believe it. She stands so straight, so stiff, as she takes him in, notes every heartbreaking detail, as though she is hallucinating, expecting to snap out of it any second.

“It’s me.” Orpheus says, feeling tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

He wants to hold her, to never let her go, to live up to all the things he promised her so long ago, to provide her the shelter she once turned to him for, to be there for her needs this time around. He wants to breathe her in, remind himself what it is to be kissed (to be loved ) by her. He wants to fix everything, transport himself to a world where they started a family together, where they got to live slowly and know how it feels to not always be scrambling to stay alive, to be granted the luxury of time spent by Eurydice’s side. He wants to prove to himself that this is real, this isn’t another trick or test, that this isn’t an illusion, another method of torture deployed by Hades (still reeling from the last time, his ego bruised at being bested by a mortal). There are so many things to say, so many words that escape him, as he looks at her shiny eyes and her open mouth, locked in an expression that he misinterprets as relief.

Eurydice approaches him cautiously, treading as if the ground will open up beneath her feet and snatch her away from his eager arms again. She remains composed, though Orpheus knows her well enough to recognise the mask she wears, the immense emotion disguised beneath it. It’s not until her hands are on his shoulders that he realises he’s misread her, that the moisture in her eyes is furious tears, that she isn’t overjoyed to see him, but horrified. Instead of hugging him, instead of kissing him and telling him how much she’s missed him, she begins to hit him. Her fists slam against his chest repeatedly as she screams hoarsely, fat tears slipping down her cheeks like melting snow (he still feels so cold, like there is a blizzard inside his blood). And he doesn’t understand: why isn’t she happy ? Does she not love him anymore? Has she already moved on? Or does she not forgive him? How could she forgive him?

Orpheus feels the last of the light inside him wither and die. He has been destroying himself, sinking into the deepest pit imaginable, reaching such an emotional abyss that he would purposefully let himself die just to see her again, and now he finds himself unwanted. The look of disappointment, of disbelief and exasperation in Eurydice’s eyes is unbearable, the way she lashes out like she has forgotten how to trust him twists a dagger into his chest. Every part of him aches and now he will have to spend the rest of this perpetual afterlife being despised by her. What the fuck has he done ?

“No,” Eurydice is muttering as her fists pound relentlessly, “ No!”

She looks up at him. There are tears streaming down her face. Eurydice has always been someone who hid her emotions, who learnt that it was easier not to let people in; it was only with Orpheus that she began to share her feelings. He once had to pry, to coax her to speak her mind, like trying to extract a pearl from its shell. What he sees now is unmistakable, so clear to read in the glossy wideness of her eyes and the pained arch of her eyebrows: betrayal.

“You can’t be here yet,” She’s saying, her fists finally slowing down, her hands hesitating and resting limply on his chest, as her shoulders slump and her voice weakens into something so small and resigned, “ Why , Orpheus?”

“Eurydice… I'm so sorry, I just - I couldn't do it. I couldn't...”

He doesn’t even know how to finish the sentence. Not for the first time today, he is floundering for words, unable to find any to suit the mood of the tragedy he’s written. But just to say her name is a miracle, like flexing a muscle that has been deteriorating from going unused for so long, to feel the way it curves his tongue and lifts his heart, so familiar and melodic. Orpheus doesn’t think he’s said it out loud since the day he lost her, when he’d whispered it so tenderly yet despondently, knowing that it would be the last word she ever heard from him. The impossibility of it hits him, seeing her again, saying her name again, and he falls to pieces, the hand that lingers on his chest (like it’s gone rusty, like she has forgotten how to act around him) reacts instinctively, drawing him close, and he lets himself cry into Eurydice’s arms, as though all of this isn’t his fault.

“I was going to wait,” Eurydice whispers, sniffling and burying her face into his shoulder, “As long as it took. You - you were meant to live.”

He can’t speak. There is no way to respond but to cry. And that is what he does.

“It wasn’t meant to be like this,” She says, “You were meant to be an old man the next time I saw you.”

And then, despite everything, despite the gentle lurch of Orpheus’ body as he sobs, despite the damp lines the tears have painted on Eurydice’s face, she laughs. Quick, short, breathless. 

“I’m really happy to see you.” She says, “Pissed off, too. And upset. But still happy.”

“Me too.” Orpheus says, tracing her cheekbone with bloody fingers, “I love you, Eurydice.”

“I love you too.” She answers immediately, "I just - I'm conflicted."

"I know." And he thinks: she has all the time in the world to come to terms with it, as long as necessary to process this.

Orpheus thinks of what he has done, the world he has exited, the one he is now stranded in, and wonders whether it was worth it, whether he will regret it. He will never again see the sun rise in the morning, never watch the first flowers sprout and bloom in spring. He will never see Hermes, never clean tables or rinse glasses in the bar, never hear that light and teasing voice that struggled to pretend to be objective, never beg him for the secret recipe for the soup that always helps a sore throat vanish overnight (and watch the god’s eye sparkle as he says such knowledge is too sacred for mortals to possess, that it could make his puny mind explode). He will never hold his lyre, straining his memory for the mother who didn’t want him and appreciating the god who took her place, never summon warmth to his fingertips with a song, never scratch that ceaseless itch in his brain that demands him to fixate on writing the perfect lyrics, never feel the satisfaction of that moment when it all comes together and sounds so magical. He has sacrificed so much, and he knows that he has acted rashly, without sufficient consideration, but one look at Eurydice and he’s able to push all this doubt aside for now.

It will come back to bite him later, when he has settled into his new reality, when he begins to picture Hermes alone in the bar and the beauty of the world Orpheus worked so hard to improve, the world he saved and then departed from. He knows it will tear him apart. But there is nothing to be done now, nothing to think about but the guilt he tried to get away from and the guilt he has created as a result. 

“Come home with me,” Eurydice says, and leads him into the dark.