Owing to the Sun’s mournful song, hearts flourish in Grief and Death, and in the other dwellers of the Underworld.
Harpies and centaurs cease their horrors. Hecate eases her burden and the Erinyes their punishments. Charon after Styx halted. Even Cerberus tore away with no command, and had all six of his ears lifted, alert. Old wandering souls stilled, solemn after centuries of wailing. They were searching for meaning or purpose, a reminder of life; maybe in this mortal, they see it.
Orpheus’s is grief that touches even them— these wicked, hideous things, these feared strays. They have no empathy to speak of, no awareness nor heart, but hers had longing roots; it was one beating still. While the guest fills their realm with the strings of his lyre, that heart breaks at music like dimmed sunlight.
She looks to her companion, finds his features tense and stern. He governs so, and it is the way things are. His subjects are empty, nothing but bones, bare and made of smoke, their ribs covering hollowness as devoid as the Underworld itself. Some were humans once, and upon their arrival they would retain their form— phantom flesh and skin, but not for long.
His ways were born from from loss and necessity. Early, he realized that remorselessness is the only reign over this abode. He has never been passive, but has honored a decision and a responsibility when he was given the Underworld, and an agreement when she gave herself to him. That responsibility he made entirely his, ruled with virtue and the weight of circumstance, and under his laws all was equal. True to his old self, he remains sober and restrained— the most disciplined of his brothers. But she knows that in part, his dispassion is an act; she knows that, under that exterior of steel and ice, he is no stranger to tender perceptions.
So, “Will you not give him a chance?” Persephone asks.
“It is unheard of,” Hades simply retorts. It is a cold, dry aggravation, not like the vicious wrath that often follows those who try to leave the Underworld. “Soon he shall fall hungry and eat from this realm,” he continues, looking at Orpheus in the distance. “Then they will become reunited for eternity.”
“She still bears the marks of the viper. What a painful death that must have been.”
“And what mercy is there in sending her to live and die again?”
“She deserves a gentler death, a swift passing in old age,” Persephone presses, her palms facing upwards, gesturing at the delicate, grieving melody. “Listen! How loved she is!”
“Compassion is unbefitting to the Underworld,” he tells her, and harshly, tucks what else he wants to say between his teeth. His brows are drawn together, casting a flinty shadow on his eyes. He is not angry, she realizes with delight; he is doubting. Hades is dreading that soon, he will yield.
Stifling her amusement, “is it now?” she playfully says. “Strange. I hear its Patron would ascend to earth to seek his consort if her return was delayed by so much as a single day.”
After earning an exasperated sigh, Persephone holds her hand to his chest, finding the steady thump underneath. She wonders if the Ichor running through them both will endure all the coming eternities; she considers death and its decisiveness, the finality.
“They call us immortals,” she tells him at length. “Do you believe we are so?”
“No,” he says, simply, his black eyes tight on Orpheus.
“Can you bear the thought of parting?”
His eyes then find her, and he rises from his seat. “From Demeter? I’d be elated,” he says dryly.
She laughs in surprise. “Well, I like it, the notion of the end. It would bring closure to you and me when we grow tired of ruling.” In the lines of his face she notices an old, wistful sadness. Then, smiling, “I hope that should Death come, it comes for us both.”
“Yes,” he says, easing.
“You will have to pass first,” she teases. “You are accustomed to waiting..” Her words are split apart by giggles when Cerberus arrives and circles her legs as she pet his heads. “Besides, I do not want you to wind up like poor Orpheus.”
He gives in to a gruff chuckle. “Are you planning my demise to become the solitary ruler of the Underworld?” He says, his voice lighter and lined with mirth, and his gaze gentler.
“I could be,” she retorts. “You should let him take his wife and go,” continues Persephone, turning her back to him and letting the hound lead her back to the music. “We all know you do not need more competition for Cerberus’s affections.”