Chapter Text
Beca stood at the mouth of Hades’ Gate clutching her father’s golden lyre in one hand, and the remainder of a chocolatine in the other. It had been so long, over three thousand of years, since she stood at this very place. Three thousand years of heartache, culminating into this very moment.
She crammed the remainder of her pastry into her mouth and took a deep breath. Emboldened by the sugary sweetness on her tongue, she forged forward.
Beyond the jagged crags of the orange-grey stone, darkness crawled for miles in infinitely shifting directions, snaking around the quiet, shallow pools of Styx’s run-off streams. Beca had not forgotten the way.
Far beyond Styx, after all, was the love of her life.
She strummed her lyre and shone a golden light into the cave. Finally, finally, she would see her love again, and finally, finally, she would bring her home.
Hades be damned.
As she took the first few steps past Hades’ Gate, she listened to the quiet echoes of the water glancing off her Doc Martens, a different cadence from the sandals she wrote the last time she was here.
A wisp of blue light pulsed suddenly between the hues of yellow set off by her lyre, and she stopped.
“Orpheus,” the light said solemnly, flickering with each syllable.
Beca sighed. “Aunt Clio,” she greeted the wisp warily, cringing at the name she hadn’t heard in millennia. It had been hundreds of years since the gods disappeared from the human realm, and thousands since she’d seen her mother Calliope, the muse of poetry, but despite their fraught relationship, she recognized her meddling. “My mother has sent her sister to do the dirty work again, I see.”
The blue wisp swirled, hovering in a circle. She could almost imagine her aunt with her hands on her hips, her chocolate curls shaking as she wagged a finger at her with a hand on her hip. Clio, being in charge of history in a family of artists, had always overcompensated by being extra stern.
“Your mother doesn’t know yet,” Clio replied. “You mustn’t return to Hades. It is not safe—no one can enter Hades a second time and expect to be safe.”
A yellow wisp joined the blue. “Leave the little one alone, Clio,” it said. “We don’t know what lies in the underworld now.”
“Eh, but Clio is right,” responded a red wisp that materialized suddenly on Beca’s shoulder, “there’s no way Orpheus will come back unscathed.”
“Aunt Thalia and Aunt Mel—you too?”
Thalia and Melpomene, twin sisters of comedy and tragedy respectively. Beca liked them enough, but this was getting crowded. “Eurydice is still down there—I’m fixing this once and for all, so don’t try to stop me.”
“Who’s to say she’s still down there?” Melpomene challenged.
Thalia tutted. “She might be! What do you know of love and devotion, you ass!”
“How rude!”
No matter what her family had to say, Beca had waited far too long for this moment to turn back now. She tightened her grip on the lyre, tuned her squabbling aunts out, and trudged onwards. With each step forward, Beca pushed deeper into the underworld. With each step forward, she was pushed further into her memories.
To the very beginning of all she cared to remember—hair the colour of passion and eyes the colour of serenity. On most days, Beca tried to forget the days of Orpheus, but the image of Eurydice still burned clear as if it were the only yesterday that has ever mattered.
It was an endless battle between remembering the love of her life and remembering the greatest failure to define her three thousand years of false human existence.
Beca was born in the halls of Olympus to revered, ambitious, beloved, and too-busy parents, Apollo and Calliope. She lived a blissful childhood, her happiness only growing when she fell in love with and married the woman of her dreams, her best friend and her greatest muse.
No one saw Eurydice’s death coming on their wedding day.
Hades, moved by the song Beca sang to him in her pleas, agreed to return Eurydice to her on a single condition—Beca clenched her fist as she replayed the events of that day. All she had to do was lead Eurydice out of Hades without looking back.
She simply had to have faith.
But she didn’t—she couldn’t shake the possibility that Eurydice was not behind her and she’d failed. Or the possibility that Eurydice, in her anger, chose not to follow her back into the realm of the living.
She’d let everyone down, Eurydice most of all. She’d let everyone down so badly that Zeus, her grandfather, wanted her head. She should’ve been dead—she probably would’ve preferred it. At least she could be with the love of her life once more. Endlessly, she imagined walking along the River Styx, singing songs of their youth, or strolling through the beautiful meadows of Elysium with her hand in Eurydice’s. She imagined the stolen kisses beneath a pomegranate tree or making love by the water’s edge.
Instead, she spent three thousand years living with her shame. Alive.
While her love was not.
On some days, she still resented her father for not letting her die. When Apollo plucked her out of the path of her grandfather’s lightning bolt, Beca had kicked and screamed, vowing never to speak to her father ever again for condemning her to an endless lifetime of grief and guilt.
She kept that promise, even when the gods began leaving this plane in what became known as The Great Departure. In the early years, it was only her mother’s pleas that kept her alive. It was not long after that she realized that her father’s blood was strong, and that Zeus’s bolt had been the only thing capable of killing her immortal body and sending her soul to the underworld to be reunited.
Alive against her will, only the dreams of making up for a life lost with Eurydice made life worth living. Endlessly, she fantasized taking her around the world, of showing her the wonders humans were capable of—she wanted the big and the small. The quiet moments by a fireplace, watching television, cooking together by candlelight—all through each era, thoughts of Eurydice and the anguish of living without her never strayed far from her mind.
But no more—she’d waited long enough.
“Lord Apollo asks about you still,” Thalia’s voice broke through her reverie, bouncing off the damp cave and straight into filial guilt she thought she’d long abandoned.
“No, thanks,” Beca muttered.
Melpomene huffed. “Orph—”
“Don’t call me that. I’m Beca Mitchell now.”
Melpomene’s red light flickered indignantly as she circled Beca’s head twice and fluttered ahead. “Tragedies happen when our heroines refuse to accept who they are.”
“Oh, you’re always so melodramatic,” Thalia’s yellow wisp said, floating onto Beca’s shoulder. “Don’t listen to her, Beca. If you ask me, the only tragedy is how much time my sister spends reading My Chemical Romance fan fiction over the shoulders of fifteen-year-olds.”
“Why, you—”
Mel’s red light darted toward yellow as Thalia’s bright peals of laughter zigzagged around the darkness.
“I don’t know why those two are here,” Clio sighed. “But I’m afraid Melpomene has a point, my child. You have lived thousands of lifetimes, but that does not change who you are. It is the same with Eurydice.”
The sacred dark waters opened—Beca was knee-deep in Styx when Eurydice’s name made her stop. “What do you know about Eurydice?”
“I cannot say—I am only a muse for history and not the vessel itself,” Clio replied, “but she seems to have taken to calling herself by a new name—one that pays homage to Lady Demeter—Chloe.”
“What?” Beca grew pale. All this time, she’d dwelt so deeply in her own failures that she had not considered the possibility that Eurydice—perfect Eurydice—would choose to change. “You’re kidding.”
“I assure you I cannot. That is all I can say, but be prepared, my child, it has been over three thousand years for you both. You wish to reinvent yourself as a simple scholar in Chicago, so you must allow Eurydice to do the same, even if you do not like it.”
Beca shivered. It didn’t matter, she decided as she waded further into the water. Chloe or Eurydice, she was still the love of her life.
Suddenly, an inky, black shape appeared in the shadows. As it grew closer, the shape stretched and grew longer. It glided across the water soundlessly, save for a faint whistling that sounded more and more familiar as it came closer and closer.
Beca blinked rapidly in the blackness. Is that…“Barbie Girl”? She wondered incredulously as the whistling got louder.
A circle of yellow lantern light soon converged with the white of her father’s lyre, illuminating a long black gondola, thin and narrow like a folded leaf. The three wisps were nowhere in sight.
“My, my, my, my, my,” bellowed a deep voice at the end of the boat. A tall, thin man soon slid into the light. He leaned on his oar, an amused smile painted on the grey skin beneath a wide-brimmed black hat. “If it isn’t little Orpheus. I never thought I’d ever see you here again.”
The last time Beca saw him, he wore a long black cloak and never spoke save for a few grunts and groans. Now, the blue Hawaiian shirt, gold earring, and the slow, easy drawl made her wonder if this was still the same man.
“Charon?”
“That’s me,” he said, smiling perpetually with white, jagged teeth. “Gate’s closed, you know. The Departure changed a few things around.”
“I see that,” Beca said, narrowing her eyes. “You seem…like you’re enjoying your retirement?”
Charon plucks at the fabric of his shirt proudly. “Can’t complain. The human world is fascinating—never had much of a chance to see it before.”
“I thought everyone left after the Departure—you…why didn’t you go?”
Charon shook his head. “Everyone left, but Her Ladyship did not. Lord Hades locked down the underworld—no souls allowed in and out. Except the queen, of course. She continues to watch over the mortal world six months out of the year, so I’ve been tasked to accompany her on every tour. Not much we can do these days, but I suspect Her Ladyship just likes mortals more than gods—don’t tell her I said that though.”
“So…so everyone is still…”
“Ah,” Charon chuckled, his laughter rumbling like sliding gravel on a hillside, “of course…your return can only mean one thing. I have to say, I must to commend you—I thought somebody would’ve killed you all those years ago. But you survived.” His laughter grew. “And to return all these years later, alive! Young love is a beautiful thing.”
“Is she—”
“The underworld has changed, my friend, and the gods aren’t around to save you,” Charon continued, the expression beneath his hat suddenly grim. “You’re walking into death, Orpheus. More than death—you are risking your very soul. Not even Lord Apollo can protect you from the mandates of the underworld.”
“I’m not letting her go again.”
Charon hummed. “You know…Chloe hasn’t been Eurydice in many years. You would throw your life away for someone you don’t know?”
“I’m not the woman she once knew either,” Beca replied steadfastly. “But I need to do this. I’m not asking you to understand, but please—will you help me if I make it out of those gates?”
Charon sighed. “Of course, it is my duty, but—”
“Then don’t worry about me,” Beca said with a smile masking the torrent of feelings within. “Take me to Cerberus.”
“Fine,” Charon replied, gesturing her into the boat. “Come along, then. Only because I think Her Ladyship will be pleased with your return, foolish as it may be.” His cold fingers wrapped around Beca’s wrist, tugging her up into his gondola. There was a collection of baubles littered around the floor, various artefacts of the mortal realm ranging from souvenir mugs to Beanie Babies. Beca picked up a damp stuffed elephant from a seat and sat it in her lap. “Sorry about the mess. Been too lazy to put away the spoils of my last trip. Flappy’s cute, isn’t she?”
Beca glanced down at the elephant—Flappy, she presumed.
“Why would Persephone want to see me?” She asked.
“Ah, well, I suppose there’s no way for you to know this, but she cares deeply for Chloe—Eurydice. Your appearance is bound to make Chloe happy, which would in turn make Her Ladyship happy. Alas, no matter how kind Her Highness is, there are rules she must abide by as queen.”
“Right…”
Across the River Styx, the light of the lyre illuminated the cavernous walls, opening further and further up into empty darkness.
Charon was…chattier than Beca remembered. As he rowed them toward Cerberus’s gates, he spoke at length about his trips to the mortal realm and how it has changed in the centuries since the Departure.
Beca was well-aware, of course, having lived among the mortals the entire time. She’d watched the gods leave, one by one, and ignored her mother’s plea to do the same. As Orpheus, she’d enjoyed the fame that came with her heartbreak. She enjoyed the freedom that came with the fame, only to marinate in the guilt and longing that would follow her for the next three thousand years. For that, she could not leave with the rest of the gods.
Not without Eurydice.
Or Chloe.
Whatever she wished to be called, Beca would not give up on her love a second time.
She told Charon this, much to her own surprise in a brief moment of vulnerability, and he smiled sympathetically. Though she could not see his eyes—she imagined them shining whenever he spoke. They’d both witnessed the rise and fall of empires, and through their mutual appreciation of the mortal realm, they forged an unexpected friendship on the River Styx in that short trip.
Eventually, Charon dropped her off at a long dock illuminated by ghostly strings of fairy lights. “Cute, isn’t it?” Charon said proudly, puffing out his Hawaiian-shirted chest. “I bought these at a grand marketplace called Bed, Bath, and Beyond.”
“I like it,” Beca said with a smile.
Charon beamed. “Thank you. I think I’d be a really good interior decorator if I lived in the mortal world. I’ve read a lot of magazines, you know.”
“You’ve got a lot of space to work with, I guess,” Beca said, gesturing to the endless caverns.
“Maybe I can show you someday,” he said, his white teeth shining beneath the broad brim of his hat as he grinned. “I hope you make it back out, Orpheus. I’m sure Her Ladyship would love to dine with you and Chloe when spring comes. Have you had a hot hog? It’s a brilliant mortal invention! It’s a folded bread and meat with a sweet, red sauce.”
“Hot dog,” Beca corrected with a chuckle. “And yes, I have. When I come back, tell Persephone to meet me in Chicago—I’ll show you a better hot dog.”
Charon’s smile wavered. “Good luck, my friend. If you make it out, just play your lyre and I’ll be there.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll see you soon.”
The long, solemn walk to the gate was quiet. Quiet enough for the doubts to return. Without Charon, without her three aunts, she felt for the first time in a long time truly, utterly alone.
Though she wanted to believe Eurydice—Chloe—would be happy to see her, there were no certainties. It’d been three thousand years, so many of which wasted to her own guilt and cowardice. She could’ve returned so many times—she almost did so many times—but something always held her back.
The shame of letting her down, perhaps, and profiting off her misery. The shame of being unable to do such a simple task, of being unable to trust. Or, maybe it was the self-loathing. The many pathetic excuses she made for never finding the courage to be more.
All of those things—she’d let them outweigh her love for Eurydice for three thousand years.
Worse, she’d let history forget who they were beyond her stupid mistake—who Orpheus and Eurydice really were when they were together. No, she was content to let the world define them by their most tragic moment for the rest of existence. She was content to hide. To forget. To wallow.
But then, Stacie and Aubrey showed her a different path.
Stacie was Beca Mitchell’s best friend and colleague at the University of Chicago. An archaeologist who fell in love with a Valkyrie when vacationing in Denmark. A Valkyrie who, for reasons Beca have yet to ask, did not leave with the rest of the Northern gods. It was a love that was not supposed to happen, and yet they crossed oceans to make sure it did.
Beca was astounded by Aubrey’s courage and Stacie’s faith.
So much so that she could no longer make excuses.
Here she was now, the gilded gates of hell towering over her. There was no turning back after this point.
She placed a hand on the cool metal.
“My child, you must reconsider,” Clio’s voice returned at her ear suddenly.
Beca shook her head. “I’ve spent three thousand years considering and reconsidering. I’m done, Aunt Clio. I want her back. She deserves to be free—I deserve to be free, and I’m not free if she isn’t by my side. It’s the only way.”
“I believe in you, Beca,” Thalia’s voice joined in cheerfully. “Love always wins.”
“Thank you, Aunt Thalia,” Beca said, smiling at the yellow orb of light glowing proudly above her. She waited—where Thalia went, Mel was sure to follow.
Sure enough, only moments later, the red wisp reappeared.
“Well, kid, I guess if you’re dead, you get to be together,” Melpomene drawled in her slow, sarcastic way. “Yay. Your mom’s going to be so thrilled.”
Clio sighed. “If you must, then we will watch over you, just as we always have, even if we cannot guarantee your safety.”
Beca rolled her eyes. “You disappeared pretty quick when Charon showed up.”
“Others cannot know we are here—the rules of the Departure forbid it,” Clio explained calmly. “But, trust, little one, that we will do the best we can to protect you—we have always done our best to protect you.”
Beca sucked the inside of her cheek, taking a deep breath to swallow down the instinct for anger. “Look, Aunt Clio, I appreciate the sentiment, but…trust me—there are fates worse than dying. I don’t expect you to understand, but I need Eu—Chloe. I’ve already suffered three thousand years without her, and nobody was there to protect me then.” The heavy gate scraped and groaned as she pushed at the gate. “Come along if you want to—just don’t give me any more bullshit.”
When the gate did not budge, the three silent wisps slipped through the crack of the door and undid the lock.
“Thanks,” Beca mumbled when they returned to her side.
“We may not understand, but if this is what you truly desire, we will not stand in your way,” Clio said, her voice tinged with sadness. “Your mother is bound to find out soon.”
“Let her.”
Solemnly, they followed her through the massive, rusted gates.
Just beyond the gates, the stony path gave way to obsidian floors. Dark against dark, a low growl sounded like an alarm. Hot air blew against Beca’s face, and it smelled like rotted fish.
Beca smiled—she remembered the fear she felt last time she stood here. How naïve she was then to think that this would be her greatest obstacle. She strummed her golden lyre, filling the room with its warm, golden light.
Towering far above her was the three-headed hound, Cerberus, his six eyes watching her curiously, glowing like orange amber. His sleek, dark, fur shone in the light, pointed ears alert as he appraised her.
“Hey, boy,” Beca said. “Remember me?”
Cerberus kneeled down onto its great, black paws, growling like rolling thunder as he bared his teeth. Apparently not.
Beca took a step back to avoid the splash of slobber. “I don’t sing anymore, but maybe a song will help,” she said, strangely calm as she strummed her lyre.
She’d adopted many dogs during her time on earth, but none, she knew, enjoyed a song quite like this old boy.
She started slow, building up a melody to a familiar song in her heart. It was an ancient song, one that she wrote in Eurydice’s arms under the shade of an ancient tree, rewritten to the tune of painfully nostalgic longing for days long gone. There used to be words, fragments of poetry spun when Eurydice whispered love into her ears, pomegranate kisses all across her face—she’d forgotten them now, and in spite of the way her heart filled with every rising crescendo, she could not bring herself to remember them.
To Beca’s surprise, Cerberus laid his three great heads on his paws, whining and wailing in harmony with the lyre, as if he’d sung it all his life.
Cerberus nudged at her with one large nose—she’d stopped, holding a pause for so long that the song eventually crumbled. She swiped at the tears with the heel of her palm.
“How do you know this song?” She whispered incredulously.
For this was not the same song she played for him three thousand years ago to put him to sleep. In fact, she hadn’t played this song since that very day.
How could he have known it as surely as he knew his master’s voice?
Cerberus watched her steadily with his glowing, yellow eyes. He pawed at the ground, each head taking turns nudging at Beca and the lyre.
Beca smiled softly. “Is this…one of your favourites?”
Cerberus barked, his tail thumping excitedly as the sound shook the cavern walls.
“But how…how did you know?”
Unless Eurydice—Chloe…Beca’s heart beat wildly in her chest—does that mean she isn’t angry with her?
She changed the key, replaying the song from beginning to end as it was intended. Bright, lilting melodies splashing into steady chords like waves hitting white sand—a love story given new life, revitalized by hope. Chloe’s fair skin and bright blue eyes—a summer day far away where all Beca knew was utter love.
Cerberus barked happily, rising up on his hind legs to stretch his full length into the darkness of the cavern above while he waved his paws, dancing and singing to phantom happiness of days gone by. Swept up in its familiarity, Beca laughed, playing a little faster as she tapped her foot along to the rhythm of Cerberus’s tail thumping the obsidian ground. She found herself dancing, twirling just like Eurydice used to along the riverbanks, drawing in nearby nymphs with her radiant smile and endless zest for life.
Beca’s smile grew—by gods, she loved her so much.
At the end of the song, Cerberus bowed his head respectfully. He moved aside, revealing a trap door beneath him. Beca hugged the toe of his great paw, receiving a sloppy lick return before continuing her way.
Next stop, Tartarus.
Beca didn’t remember much of this place beyond the screaming and the agony, endless torture that would go on until the end of time. At least, there used to be.
The body of Tartarus had changed over the years, shifting mountains and deep, deep valleys carving out his skin. Beca looked up at the spires of rock piercing the never-ending night as she descended into the canyons below.
It was quiet now, the empty canyons stretching out for miles as far as she could see. In the distance, she recognized Ixion’s burning wheel, the very one she stopped by accident, three thousand years ago, while she played her lyre to distract herself from the noise. Thanatos was not happy with her that day, to say the least.
She wondered what happened to Ixion after they’d chased her out of Tartarus, but as she looked around her now, at the stillness all around her, she wondered what happened to all of Tartarus’ old residents. To her left, Sisyphus’ boulder sat at the bottom of the hill next to old chains worn with time. To her right, Tantalus’ groves sat lush and green as they always were, the oasis teeming with rotten fruit now that no one was reaching for its branches.
“Where is everyone?” Beca mumbled to herself.
Clio appeared suddenly. “Zeus would not allow his brothers to stay, so when Hades departed, he took his underworld with him.”
“He left Persephone behind?”
“He had no choice, and Persephone refused to go. Lady Demeter holds out hope, but…”
“Can’t blame the girl,” Thalia chimed in, yellow wisp joining blue. “It’s her chance to rule the underworld and hang out with the humans—oh! Wait, this is the start of a good sitcom, don’t you think? Fumbling goddess trying to make it in the big city? Ooh—every season can be six months long, and—and the city is different every season.”
“Wait, he took everyone from the underworld?” Beca asked, her heart rattling in her chest.
Thalia’s lights dimmed a little at the dismissal, and Beca almost felt bad, but there were bigger things to worry about than her aunt’s feelings right now.
“Not everyone,” Clio said, bringing a rush of relief to Beca’s lungs. “I haven’t been to Hades new underworld myself, but there are many who have chosen to stay in the sanctuary of Persephone’s kingdom.”
The conversation was suddenly, abruptly cut short when the shrill cry of an eagle filled the quiet air. On cue, her aunt’s two wisps disappeared on a poof, leaving Beca to contend with the crunch of gravel echoing off the silent spires.
Turning a corner, a figure of a man began moving toward her slowly. Beca stood her ground, though her heart rattled with fear—unlike many of the meat-headed counter-parts of her age group, she was a musician, not a fighter. In moments like this, however, she wished she had the foresight to study Heracles’ wrestling moves when he used to bully her as children. He was such an asshole.
The fear grew as the man drew closer, revealing a body wrapped head to toe in dusty, grey bandages, except for his sandalled feet, piercing eyes, and thin lips. Tufts of dark hair stuck out in between the steps of fabric, all along his jaw, his egg-shaped head, and his thick chest. As he walked, she could now hear a heavy metallic rattle accompanied each step—a large chain, each link as thick as a pipe, hung loosely around his neck.
“Hello there, little one,” he said.
Beca has never seen this man before, but as he stood before her, nearly eight feet tall in height, she realized he was not a man at all, but a Titan. She’d only heard stories.
He squatted down to greet her with a handshake, to which Beca accepted nervously.
“I haven’t seen a soul in a thousand years, if I’m counting correctly,” he said, his voice slow and soft, yet deep as rumbling storm, in spite of what his size might suggest. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re alive.”
Beca nodded. Words caught in her throat when a massive eagle swooped in suddenly to land on the Titan’s shoulder.
Beca ignored the bird’s piercing stare and sucked in her courage. “Who are you and why are you here?” She asked.
The Titan chuckled, each syllable flowing like molasses. “I should be asking you that. I have not heard of a live soul entering Hades since he-who-must-not-be-named.”
“Voldemort?” Beca asked in spite of herself.
The Titan tilted his large head and looked blankly at Beca. He then bent down, the eagle taking flight to circle above them with another piercing scream, and whispered, “Heracles.”
“Oh. Yeah, that guy,” Beca said, unimpressed. “You guys don’t like him either, huh?”
“I have no quarrel with him,” the Titan said, rising. He touched his necklace with a wistful smile, partially visible beneath the bandages. “He freed me from bondage and broke the spell of cruelty upon Olive, my companion.” The eagle returned to sit on the Titan’s broad shoulder. “Olive gets a little upset whenever those days are mentioned. Even moreso when he is involved. He believed that Olive’s cruelty could only be changed by death, and very nearly killed her to free me had I not intervened.”
Beca swore softly under her breath when realization hit her. “You’re Prometheus.”
Prometheus nodded.
“Why didn’t you leave?”
“What is the point of trying to escape from the inevitable dread of existence?” Prometheus turned and gestured for her to follow. “Come, little one, you look lost—I shall guide you through Tartarus.”
Beca did as she was told, feeling far more at ease now that she knew who he was. In spite of his monstrous appearance, Prometheus had always been known for his kindness, especially toward the humans she’d come to think of as her identity after so many years.
“The gods have resented me for millennia—they blame me still for their arrogance that has led to The Great Departure.” The gentle giant gestured to the barren landscape around them. “You see, little one, the underworld is now the only haven for those of us with no place to go. Even if Cerberus allowed us out, we would not dare to leave. The mortal world has long evolved past its need for gods, and we wish only to be left alone to contemplate the vastness of nothingness. Most of us, anyway.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
“There are many in each corner of the underworld. Heroes and monsters alike, all who did not fit into the plans of the gods or the humans. Many like me, living between never-ending life and never-ending death. Alas, that is not your purpose. You…are a seeker.”
“I guess?”
“Who is it do you seek?”
“Oh, um…my wife.” Beca blushed—she had not said those words in three thousand years, and they sound strangely foreign now with all that distance between them. “I’m…here to take her home. With me.”
“To the human world, I presume?” Prometheus said thoughtfully. “A world so steeped in fear and misery and grief that Tartarus was constructed in its image to continue the eternal self-flagellation? What difference does it make to take her to the surface?”
Beca looked up at the giant. “I thought I was pretty gloomy until I met you,” she observed out loud.
“Gloominess implies there is any joy at all to be had in this world,” Prometheus drawled.
Beca chuckled. “Then, I suppose you haven’t met Chloe, have you?”
“Chloe…Chloe…Chloe…ah!” Prometheus raised a finger, rattling his chains in what must’ve been a display of excitement. “The Songbird.”
“The Songbird?”
“Yes. She sings so beautifully.” As if on cue, Olive cried out in agreement, shaking her feathers on Prometheus’ shoulder in approval. “She is one of the few creatures here who give me hope that joy can exist in this deep, dark place,” he said wistfully. “She is your wife?”
“Yes,” Beca said, grinning proudly, “I’m glad some things haven’t changed.”
“She never mentioned marriage…perhaps it is because I never asked. I assumed one such as her belonged to the world. Even if the world does not deserve her.”
“She…never mentioned me?”
Prometheus shook his head slowly. “Understand, little one, that Chloe is one of the most beloved creatures in all of Persephone’s kingdom. She brings us all song and dance where song and dance should not exist. To take her away is to deprive us of her. Furthermore, to take her away is to deprive her of the unconditional love she has here.”
Beca stopped. The god of forethought looked down with sympathy.
“I love her unconditionally,” Beca asserted, her voice echoing off Tartarus’ walls. She tried not to flinch when her own voice seemed to taunt her, reminding her of the last time she was here. Though she’d made a mistake, burning love for Chloe was all she knew—such love could only be unconditional…right?
“It would be useless to rage against the wheels of fate,” Prometheus continued in his monotonous way. “Everything is rendered meaningless with time. You must do what you must—but be prepared for what you might face.”
He lifted his arm and pointed out toward a crack in Tartarus’ great mountains, filled with the pitch black of possibility. “Beyond there is Asphodel. Go straight through for Elysium and don’t stop. The Songbird flitters about, but if you cannot find her in Elysium, seek out Persephone’s groves. I wish you luck, little one.”
If Tartarus was bare, Asphodel was a ghost town of abandoned chaos. Everything seemed to be washed in a tone of muted sepia, from its clutter of abandoned square buildings covered with sprawling muted green moss rising from the valley up the surrounding hills. Every building was identical down to the occasional brick courtyards and plain, circular fountains. Even the ghostly asphodel flowers that grew between the cracks could not add colour to this world.
When she was last here, Asphodel looked nearly the same, save for all the new buildings they added along the slope of the crater, seeming to almost fold into itself with its monotony. It had the same colourlessness that seemed to drain the souls of all who lived in it. And yet, without the wandering shades, the place felt even more oppressive.
Beca stared into an empty fountain, suddenly struck by Prometheus’ words as a heavy fog fell over her head and shoulders.
To take Chloe away from the underworld is to deprive her of the love she has here.
Was all of this a mistake? For Eurydice to not only change her name, but destroy the very concept of Eurydice completely—to destroy the very concept of them in order to stay in the underworld—could it be that she did not understand her wife as well as she thought?
Beca clutched her golden lyre, now only a washed-out shade of yellow, to her chest.
Could it be that in spite of the guilt, the shame, the three-thousand years of what Prometheus called self-flagellation, that her love was still…not enough?
Her love was not enough.
What arrogance…what foolishness…what…
“My child, you must keep moving,” Clio’s voice interrupted. “It is not safe to stay in Asphodel. The air here—it will neutralize your will and dash your ambition if you allow it to.”
Beca raised her head, though she could not see the colourful wisps she’d come to expect. So she returned her gaze to the fountain.
What was the point of going anywhere?
Her entire existence had been dedicated to loving Eurydice, and now Eurydice was gone, replaced by a stranger named Chloe. The Songbird who belonged to the world.
“Kid, you gotta go!”
Aunt Mel.
“Please, Beca—whatever you’re thinking right now isn’t you.”
Aunt Thalia.
“Asphodel is taking hold of you, my child. You must continue your journey.”
Aunt Clio.
Increasingly panicked voices began to overlap each other until the sound began to fade into echoes, as if they were all speaking into a bowl.
But how could any of them understand? Beca wondered. She fell to her knees, the lyre clattering against the brick-laden ground. Because if Eurydice—Chloe—no longer loved her, she should just die here.
“Rise, Orpheus.”
A fourth voice burst through the chorus like thunder. A voice she had not heard in so long that she could not immediately recognize it.
“Rise,” it said again.
This time, Beca looked up at Asphodel’s swirling clouds, where blacks and browns collide like ink on parchment.
“Mother?” She whispered.
Calliope—the Muse called Chief of all Muses by humans arrogant enough to assign hierarchy to the mistresses of human imagination and the most beloved of all Muses. Once upon a time, Beca adored her mother. Her mother had given her music wings that captured worlds, reaching further than even war and ideology ever could. With her gift and her guidance, her greatest failure had turned into her greatest source of fame, only for that to become her greatest shame.
She hadn’t spoken to her mother since the day she stopped writing. Her mother hadn’t tried to speak to her since she stopped singing shortly after. It was so long ago now that she barely remembered the details.
It must’ve been around the time she began hearing stories spread of her time in the underworld. The magnificent lies that expounded on the worst thing to have ever happen to her. Years after the rumours, there was Virgil. After Virgil, there was Ovid, Plato, Boethius, and Camus—countless men who used her story to expose her weakness alongside their own. Wherever she went, there were versions of her story. She didn’t stop them. Worse, she’d sold her soul to her mother when she allowed Calliope to turn her grief into song. She’d fed the lies and earned her coin while Eurydice wandered the underworld alone.
She was a coward who ruined everything she touched.
To think she had brazenly taken so much of her mother’s patience—
To think she had the audacity to consider herself worthy of Chloe’s love—
“Rise, my darling Orpheus,” came her mother’s soft voice once more. “Strike your lyre—let your grief into the abyss—waste not another moment, for there is hope in love’s fire, even in darkness such as this.”
Slowly, Beca stood, supporting herself against the fountain’s edge when strength seemed to drain from her like water through a sieve. “Mother, I—I can’t,” she murmured, suddenly cold as the pressure against her skull seemed to deepen. “I’ve failed you, mother. I failed Chloe…I…I must stay here…it’s what I deserve…”
Voices fluttered in and out of her consciousness.
Her eyes closed.
Washed in darkness, she heard one last voice—one that rang as clear as a bell above all others.
A voice singing the most beautiful song she had ever heard.