#you can’t tell from this post but this is inspired by Orpheus and Eurydice

[the-sun-and-the-sea]

Summary:

He has no choice, not really. If Annie can go home, never see the Capitol again, he'd do anything to make it happen.

Or: After Annie's victory, President Snow makes Finnick an offer he can't refuse.

#you can’t tell from this post but this is inspired by Orpheus and Eurydice #is this too niche? #I guess we’ll find out #anyway I hope you enjoy #finnick odair #annie cresta #odesta #thg #the hunger games #thg fic #my fic

[therainbowwillow]

https://therainbowwillow.tumblr.com/post/640094221880197120/therainbowwillow -Part 2

Well! Part 3/??? Here’s the premise: Hades’ terms for Orpheus leaving Hadestown are extremely harsh. Persephone threatens to leave him, and he’s forced to back down, leaving Orpheus with a single rule: he can’t sing until he’s out. He orders the residents of Hade to kill Orpheus, the only living mortal in the underworld. Eurydice, Persephone, and other mythological heroes join him on the journey to escape. Hermes gets word of his son’s trial and decides he’ll assist Orpheus. Dionysus joins him to visit Persephone (his mother, I’m using his Orphic parentage: Hades and Persephone) and Apollo comes, inspired by Orpheus’s attempt at freeing Eurydice, to find his lover, Hyacinthus.

TLDR Hadestown, but a different terms for our favorite singer and WAY more characters because why not.

Unrelated but my phone really wants to autocorrect “Orpheus” to “Orange,” which makes for a whole different story, honestly.

Anyway, here we go:

Eurydice lays beside her sleeping lover, staring up at the cracked ceiling of Persephone’s greenhouse. Burnt vines wrap the walls and climb towards the artificial lights of Hadestown. “Plants don’t grow towards neon the way they do the sun,” Persephone had said. “Not even when coerced by a goddess.” Still, the abandoned building provides decent shelter, which is far better than the rest of the underworld. Instead of trapping the heat, it seems to keep in the cold.

Eurydice glances at Orpheus. Even in the cool of the greenhouse, he sweats in his sleep. He’s exhausted and hungry, she knows, but they have no outside food. If he eats the food of Hadestown, she fears it’ll bind him to the damned place, just as the pomegranate seeds had bound Persephone.

Orpheus rolls over. He mumbles something incomprehensible. Eurydice keeps a closer eye on him. “Persephone?” she asks.

“Hm?” The goddess responds.

“What will Hades do if he catches us? I know the stories... Sisyphus, pushing his stone uphill forever. Tantalus, starved, with food just out of reach. Eternal torture. Is that what lays ahead?” Her voice doesn’t quiver. She finds she isn’t afraid of the answer, not after the mines. Hours and hours of her pickaxe against stone. And once she’d finished, she’d be building Hades’ wall or laying wires or partaking in some other pointless feat. Everyone in Hadestown feels like Sisyphus now.

“It’s best... it’s best if you don’t think about it.” Persephone sips from her canteen. Alcohol, certainly. Her voice has a drunken lisp to it.

“I want to know what’s at stake,” Eurydice says. Orpheus again tosses in his sleep.

“Eternal torture sums it up fine.”

“He’ll separate us, won’t he?”

Persephone shrugs. “Your contract will change. All of ours’ will. Probably a ban from speaking to each other.”

“What can he do to stop us?” Achilles mutters. “We’re dead already and he took our paridise. I can bear his whip, his mines. This whole place is torture.”

“Tell me about it.” Persephone rolls her eyes. “A goddess of spring, confined to... this.” She gestures around her.

“They say you loved him,” Eurydice says.

“Loved him. An emphasis on loved.” She takes another sip of her alcohol and slips off her wedding band. She flips it in the air and catches it. “I chose this. I chose Hades over light. Over life and clean air and springtime. I preferred Hades’ tyranny over Demeter’s. That dance... it almost felt like a fresh start. But what did I expect?” She takes a withered vine between her fingers. “This is futile. We should be planning. This place sucks the life out of everything it touches. Our poet included.”

Orpheus gasps. “Speaking of our poet, he’s awake!” She tilts her head. “You alright?” Eurydice asks.

Orpheus swallows. His eyes are wide and his breaths quick. He shakes his head. “No... no. You need to go. All of you.”

“Hey,” she rests her palm over his hands. “I’m not going anywhere. You need rest.”

He wipes his eyes. “You don’t understand. You don’t understand! Go. Please Eurydice. Please.”

“Shh... shh. You’re alright.”

He snatches his hand away. “No. I’m not. It’s... it’s too far. I’ll be... I’ll be dead by the time we reach the Styx.”

“Orpheus! Don’t talk like that. We’re gonna make it.”

“No, we aren’t. Hades is going to find me and he’ll kill me because I... I can’t do this. I can’t walk alone and I’m not allowed to sing and whatever he did to me...”

“Orpheus, look at me. You’re gonna be fine.”

“It’s not over, okay? I... I should’ve told you but...”

“What are you talking about, Orpheus? What is this?”

He sobs and sinks into her arms. “I feel worse. Eurydice, I’m getting worse,” he whispers.

“Once we’re out-“

“Once you’re out. Leave me here.”

“How can you say that? I’m not letting Hades have you!” Eurydice raises her voice.

“I came for you. And now... you’re dragging me out. I’m useless and I’m holding you back. Eurydice, I’d never forgive myself if you didn’t... if...”

“We’re going to get out of here.”

“Would you listen to me?” He yells. “We are not going to get out of here. Not so long as you’re carrying dead weight! I...” he tries to push himself upright but sinks back into Eurydice’s embrace. “I can’t sing. I can’t walk. I can’t even stand.”

She doesn’t respond. She just holds him, tight in her arms. “I don’t care,” she whispers. “I’ll carry you out of here if I have to. I love you and I’m never letting you go again. I promise.”

Orpheus says nothing. “Orpheus?”

She lifts him up and his chin falls against his chest. “Orpheus... no. No, you can’t do this to me.” She places a finger under his nose and feels his shallow breaths. She breathes a sigh of relief. “You’re alright. You’re alright.” She isn’t sure if she’s trying to convince herself or Orpheus, who cannot hear her. She lays his head back down on his coat, a makeshift pillow.

Patroclus kneels at her side. “Orpheus is right. He is getting worse.”

“What’s wrong with him?” She begs.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “He could be ill with some plague, but that’s Apollo’s domain, not Hades’s. Maybe he is only hungry or dehydrated. Regardless, he’s right that he won’t last forever down here. We should get moving.” Eurydice nods. “I wish I could be more help.”

“Someone’s here!” Achilles shouts. Patroclus leaps to his feet.

“Protect Orpheus,” he commands Eurydice and Persephone.

“If it’s my husband,” Persephone growls, “I’ll deal with him.”

Patroclus nods and returns to Achilles.

—————————————

Hades sits beside his office window. He’d given the orders in the morning: kill Orpheus. If the boy dies, his killer will not be asked to work for the rest of their time in the underworld. His plan would soon succeed. His shades would end the fool’s life and finally, finally, Hades would have his kingdom back. It had only been 48 hours or so since Orpheus’s failed serenade, but it had felt like an eternity.

Hades reaches for his wine glass. The portrait he’d torn from the wall catches his eye. Persephone, smiling, a babe at her knee. It had been a long while since he’d seen that child. Dionysus, god of wine and madness. He visited the underworld plenty, once or more every winter. Never the tower, though. He only knew the boy had come by because his wife would return, drunk out of her mind. He’d drag her to bed and every time, he’d bribe Hypnos to keep his dear Persephone asleep an extra few hours, to let her sleep off the hangover. Dionysus could wash away her intoxication with a wave of his hand. He used to. But for a long while now, she’d return drunk. Upon her request, Hades knew. He tried now not to feel the sting of this fact. His own wife would rather be blackout drunk than speak to him.

Still, he loves her. He’d laid a thousand miles of wires to brighten his kingdom, to mimic the sun she so loved. And she’d complained it was too bright. He’d let her have a wide stretch of land to attempt to grow a garden. He’d tended it with her, but still, the plants wilted. And now he had let Orpheus tear out his heart for Persephone. He’d done everything for her, nearly lost everything for her, and still, she hates him.

Hades lifts the painting from the ground and lays it across his desk. He sees his labors. To keep his hold on the underworld and his wife’s affection, if she has any left. He must prioritize his realm. He loves her, more than any kingdom, but the binds of death must not be unwound, Hades knows. The mortal realm his wife so loves would wither without death. It cannot be overrun by fleeing shades. His kingdom is his responsibility, and he must keep it in check. And so he tucks the painting into a drawer, gone from sight, gone from mind.

————————————

Hermes was beginning to wonder if Zeus could think up a worse punishment than his current circumstances. Dionysus tips his head back and chugs another flask of wine. “Want some?” he offers, for what must be the thousandth time.

Hermes sighs. “Yes.”

“Aha! Finally! The best of the best for you, my friend.” He holds out the flask and curtseys, sloshing wine over his tunic.

Hermes pinches the bridge of his nose. “Read the room,” he mutters.

“What?”

“I said thanks,” he lies. He takes a sip. The wine is incredible, better than any mortal’s best vintage.

“My dear flower, light in my eye, the sun to my sky...” Apollo recites.

Hermes wants to scream. His son is probably miserable, cast into Tartarus or locked in a cell somewhere, and here he is, listening to Apollo memorizing lines for Hyacinthus, who’s probably so deep under the Lethe’s amnesia that he won’t remember who the god is. He takes another sip of wine. “Dionysus!”

“Yes?” Dionysus laughs.

Hermes grits his teeth. Intoxication is no help to Dionysus’s ability to understand the severity of the situation. “Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“You’ll undo the effects of your alcohol on me before we get to Hadestown.”

“Sure.”

“Excellent. Now, do you have something stronger?”

“‘Course! Here.”

Hermes drinks. The alcohol burns his throat. He forces himself not to cough.

“Too strong?”

“Mm.” Hermes clears his thoat. “Not at all.” He finishes the flask.

—————————————

“Show yourself!” Achilles shouts. Patroclus stands back to back with him, armed with a pickaxe from the mines.

“I don’t think you’re in much of a place to be making demands.” The voice echoes from every corner of the greenhouse.

“Funny, I disagree.” Achilles whirls and throws his pick axe through the man’s chest. His body dissolves as if it’s made of smoke.

“Could’ve questioned him,” Patroclus says.

“What would we ask? ‘Who sent you?’ Take a wild guess.”

Patroclus shrugs. “There’ll be more of them.”

“So we don’t let our guard down. Let’s get going, Pa-“

“Argh!” He yelps.

“Patroclus!” Achilles whirls. A bowman from the roof. “To cover!” He grabs his lover’s hands and drags him to the nearest wall, out of the range of the archer’s arrows.

Patroclus clutches his shoulder. “If I hadn’t moved, that would’ve gone through my chest,” he states. “Warn Persephone. I’m alright.”

Achilles nods. “Keep your eyes open. There’s no way he’s alone. I won’t be long.”

He runs along the wall. He glances up at the ceiling. The archer is gone. He runs for the exit, then the entrance to Persephone’s greenhouse. An arrow strikes the ground at his feet. He dives in the door and slams it behind him. “We were followed,” he announces.

“So we discovered.” Persephone’s vines wrap the ground and up the wall, where a man dangles by his wrists. “Orpheus is-“

The door opens, Patroclus stands in its frame. Achilles runs to his side. “I told you to stay behind.”

“There’s more of them. They were going for a better shot on me, so I ran.”

“Your arm...”

“Is fine.” Patroclus answers. “Where’s Orpheus?”

“Here! A hand, one of you?” Eurydice calls from the opposite wall. “He’s hit.” They both run for Orpheus.

Persephone’s captive screams. “I’ll ask again. Who sent you?”

“Hades!” The man yelps. “Please!”

“I knew it,” she snarls. “His orders. What were they? Be exact.”

“Any man who kills Orpheus won’t have to work for the rest of eternity.”

“How many are after him?”

“I don’t know!” He cries. “Please!”

She tightens the vines around his throat and the man vanishes into ashes.

“Is he breathing?” She calls to Orpheus’s aids.

“Yes,” Patroclus replies. “He’s only been hit in the leg.”

Persephone nods. “I’ll hold the doors.”

Orpheus groans. “I know, I know,” Eurydice murmurs. “You’ll be okay.”

“I need to get the arrow out. Give him something to bite down on,” Patroclus tells her.

She stuffs a piece of cloth into his mouth. “Bite.” He does.

“Hold him down.” Orpheus screams. “Almost there. And it’s out. Hold pressure. Right here.” He guides Eurydice’s hands over the wound. “Press hard, don’t let up,” he tells her. “I know it hurts, Orpheus. Focus on Eurydice.”

“O-okay.” Orpheus chokes out.

“Achilles, we’ll need strips of fabric. One of the blankets should be fine. Tie a tourniquet above his wound. Apply pressure. The bleeding will stop.”

Achilles begins to tear a blanket. “Your shoulder, Pat.”

“I’m alright.” He presses a hand against it.

“No, there’s an arrow through your arm. And love, that’s what Hades has on us. If you die, you’re stuck on the banks of the Styx forever. I’m afraid... we’d never see each other again. An eternity without you... I don’t want to imagine it.”

“Okay, okay. Give me a piece of that blanket.” Achilles does. “When I take the arrow out, it’ll bleed. If anything happens, I’d recommend you leave me behind. Hades might let me live, if I say I’ll give him information and you won’t be burdened to carry me.”

“You know I won’t leave you here.”

“Yeah, I thought that might be fruitless.”

“You’re gonna want to see this,” Persephone calls. Achilles stands.

“I’ll be right back,” he tells Patroclus.

“Look.” Persephone points at the roof. An arrow whizzes and the bowman standing on it falls. “Someone wants us to make it out.”

“Or someone wants to take us alive,” he says, grimly.

Something drifts down from overhead. A scrap of fabric, maybe. It lands at Persephone’s feet. A cloth carnation. Beneath it, a note: “Hermes is coming.”

#hadestown au #hadestown fanfic #hadestown #therainbowwrites

[elysian-drops]

omg hello??? that’s SO COOL????? i can safely say that answer to your @ was not at all what i was expecting and now i’m so fascinated this is such an interesting field to get into!! is there anything else cool about death rituals or cult traditions you can share? this is actually the coolest thing i’ve learned all day

Hi there!

I’m so glad to hear you think it’s fascinating! I definitely enjoy it as well and I will absolutely share some more because I don’t get to scream about this stuff enough 😂 New slogan for this blog: “Come learn about death and the afterlife with Elysian.” Beware there is a long post under this cut lol.

Personally speaking, my area of expertise tends to focus more on Ancient Greece and Victorian burial practices (they are wild, let me tell you). But as for the cult stuff, I’ll just reference back to my other post on Orphic traditions for a second!

So Orphic traditions were inspired by the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. If you’re not familiar with the tale, the quick run down was that Orpheus, who was a demigod born from Oeagrus and Calliope (my favourite muse, by the way), travelled to the Underworld to retrieve the soul of Eurydice. Now, for the Greeks, this tale held a lot of fascination because few are the times recorded that mortal (or, half-mortal in the case of Orpheus) men could manage to go into the Underworld and come back unscathed. A whole cult tradition was born from this idea of being able to “cheat” your way through the afterlife, essentially.

For some background, a big part to the Greek understanding of the afterlife was this idea of κλέος (kleos or “glory”). You “live on” after death when people remember you— this was the reason behind having large families and putting so much emphasis on children being taught their ancestry. This was also why so many Greeks idolised great ‘heroes’, such as Perseus, Theseus, Heracles, etc— they achieved the greatest form of kleos and are forever immortalized in the afterlife. Obviously, it isn’t feasible for the common man to go out and become a hero— and of course, children and your family will eventually forget you.

So what do you do? Bring on the mystery cults that tell you how to cheat your way into getting kleos and a good afterlife (for a fee, of course 😂). I mentioned that there was one sect of the Orphic tradition that believed in the asphodel or gold drops on the tongue— but there were multiple “branches”. The most popular were the Orphic Gold Tablets which were buried with the dead so they would have a “manual.” These things are so fascinating because they give detailed instructions to the afterlife— they even tell you what to expect when you get there. For example, the translations say once you get to Hades’ mansion, there will be a white cypress tree and a fountain— you can’t drink from the fountain because you will lose your memories/identity. You need to entreat Mnemosyne (the parallel to Lethe) to let you drink from her.

But another hiccup? There are titans guarding her— so you have to get around that. These tablets tell you to proclaim you are not a mortal and you are not a god: you are a Titan. One of my favourite translations has the conversation going like: “Who are you? Where do you come from?”

“I am the son of Earth and starry Heaven”.

Essentially, you’re saying you are born directly from Gaia and Uranus (which were the primordial deities long before the gods + titans were born and long before Kronos and Zeus came into existence). If all goes well, the titans guarding Mnemosyne will recognize you as their brethren and allow you to drink from her to start the long process of achieving your kleos.

If you want to read more on these tablets, I highly recommend “Instructions for the Netherworld” by Alberto Bernabé. It’s an anthology that collects all different translations of these tablets and gives you more detail about the fountains + what to expect for the rest of your journey into Elysium!

Thanks for letting me scream at you for a bit 😂 I absolutely love getting to talk about this stuff lol.

#answered #anon submission #queue

[whorphydice]

Jealousy pt. 2/3

Hey guys here is the second part to the fic I posted yesterday and it picks up RIGHT where the last one left off!

Orpheus kisses the top of Eurydice’s head, before leaning down to do the same for the sleeping baby she cradled to his chest. 

He stops and smiles for a few moments, just running his hand over the light brown hair covering his newest daughter’s tiny head. She wasn’t very old and had already caused quite a shift in the universe of their home. “Go rest, Rydice?” He doesn’t demand it, more requests that she does so for the good of her own health. Maybe Persephone lectured him on Eurydice’s mental health and keeping her physically, mentally, and emotionally cared for. Maybe he was at his core concerned for the health of his wife, and Maybe the latter led to a question inspiring the former.

“How Am I supposed to sleep when my baby hates me, Orpheus?”  She looks at him with wide, wondering eyes, much like those of their daughter. “I can’t just not take care of the baby- she needs me even more than Ophelia does right now..How do I-”

“Please? Look, the baby’s sleeping too. They need you, both girls so.” He gestures to the little child and the way she curled up against Eurydice’s chest, looking completely at peace in her mother’s embrace. He leans down again, unable to resist, as he places a soft kiss on Eurydice’s lips before pulling away quickly. “I love you so much.” It’s so easy, such a pure declaration of love that Eurydice has trouble arguing with him. 

“I love you too, you sweet man.” She rests her forehead against his before letting out a heavy sigh of agreement. “Okay, fine.” Eurydice reaches a hand out to him, a wordless request for him to pull her off the couch. 

He obliges, pulling her to her feet before kissing her again briefly. “I’ll be in soon.”

They part, Eurydice carrying the baby off to their room, and Orpheus stopping one door before at Ophelia’s room. 

He knocks, but gets no response from his little one within. He assumes, at first, that maybe she fell asleep. Once he pushes the door open, he sees how wrong he was.

Ophelia lays on the bed, her knees pulled to her chest as she lays on her side. He can tell from the ragged rise and fall of her shoulders that she, exactly like her mother was, is crying to herself. 

“Ophelia..sweetheart..” Orpheus crosses the room, sitting on the edge of the bed beside her. Orpheus pulls the edge of the blanket down so he can see her face, and his heart breaks as he watches her frantically wipe her eyes into her stuffed rabbit. “Whats wrong, flower.” He pulls her into his lap, relishing in the way she rests her head against him and immediately relaxes in his arms. Orpheus’s heart aches when he feels her warm tears seeping through his shirt. 

“Why don’t you and mama want me anymore?” Ophelia blinks up at him, her thumb going to her mouth in a way that she hadn’t done to comfort herself in years. “Why’d you want a stupid baby instead?”

“W-what? Ophelia we- Ophelia, we love you more than anything.” He pulls her even closer, grabbing her old, patched blanket and draping it over her. It had brought her comfort from the day she was placed in his arms and her hoped to any god who would listen that it would bring her even a smidge of comfort now. “I love you more than music, I love you more than spring, I love you more than anything in the world.” Save for Eurydice, but at this point they were one entity in his heart. His wife and daughter. “We will always want you. We will always love you...nothing will ever change that. Noone will change that.”

Ophelia would never know the magnitude of her parents love for her, Orpheus was sure of that. Just like the world would never understand the depth of the love Eurydice and Orpheus have for each other, the love they had for Ophelia was inconceivable. 

“B-but the baby sleeps with mama now! And you always sing to her and-” She’s rambling in his arms, wrapping up into herself, impossibly tiny in his arms.

“Oh Ophelia.” He understood, now. 

Noone ever was competition for Eurydice’s undivided attention. Her arms were never occupied save for when Ophelia’s tiny body snuggled into them.

Noone besides Ophelia and her mama were ever on the receiving end of Orpheus’s love songs.

She didn’t know how to share because she never had to. 

“We don’t love you any less, or any differently. You are our girl, Ophelia.” Orpheus lays down with her, crunching up in her child sized bed. “We don’t love you less because you have a sister. We love you even more, now, if thats possible.”

Ophelia is whimpering as she cries, beyond the point of logical, coherent speech. “I love you, daddy.” 

It’s not an acknowledgement of  what he says, but in her own way, he knows she’s going to be okay. 

“I love you too, Ophelia Girl. So so so much. And I promise, I promise your mama loves you so much.” 

Orpheus pulls her into his chest, long limbs still scrunched in the little bed of Ophelia’s. He finds himself running his fingers over her hair, humming to her warmly. Orpheus can feel the way her little body relaxes in his arms, and can tell with the way her thumb falls from her mouth that she is asleep against his chest.

He considers for half of a second going to Eurydice, to show her everything is okay. But in that moment he knows that Ophelia needs him more. She needs the steady feeling of her father holding her, and the embrace that exudes nothing but love in the way only Orpheus can. 

Orpheus falls asleep with his hand on Ophelia’s head, his body curled up around her in a way that would protect her from anything in the world that could hurt his girl. 

Eurydice would have panicked, that night, when she woke up to the baby’s soft cries and the lack of her husband’s arms around her if it were not for the lack of Ophelia too.

With her new daughter’s head on her shoulder, she slowly made her way down the hall, peeking into the room where she could hear the soft snores that signified her daughter. 

For the first time, in the week since her daughter’s birth, looking at her husband and Ophelia, feeling the soft weight of a newborn on her shoulder, Eurydice felt whole. No matter how much they were struggling, they were all going to be just fine. 

#ophelia tag #orpheus #eurydice #hades town fic #Orpheus is the BEST Dad

[hildorien]

Fate, Free Will, and what that means.

I wrote this as my high school senior thesis. I am still very proud of it and I’m I hope people take a look at it because my post about of the race of men deserve better got some notes and I defiantly go into topics I ranted about there in this with better wording and more citations.

This is a better rebloggable version.

The Silmarillion is J.R.R. Tolkien’s most ambitious but least known work. He was never satisfied with it, to the point that it was only published after his death by his son,  Christopher Tolkien, who acted as the editor. It tells the story of Middle-earth from it’s contraception until the Third Age, or rather when Lord of the Rings starts thus it acts as a complex prequel for those books. For most of the story, it tells the tales of Elves and their struggles in the harsh world of Middle-earth, though some stories focus on the Race of Men, the name for humans in Middle-earth. Throughout the book, it weaves grand tales of both loss and triumph, murder and heroism, and history and myth closely together.

The Silmarillion has all of these things, but out of all themes, the one most commonly touched upon is that of Fate. What does it mean to be tied to fate? Can you defy Fate? And with a Fate, what does it actually mean to have free will? Can the two exist in the same space? Characters interact with Fate in different ways. Some try to defy it either by running away from it or trying to change it,  while others allow fate to have their way with them, flowing with it instead of against it. This being said, unlike many book series, The Silmarillion is doesn’t have a clear definitive answer of which of these is wrong or right, and it is wholly reliant on who you are talking about, as well as who is writing the story.

Fate and Free will are two very different things in the legends of Tolkien. You either have one or the other. A fact is wholly reliant on who you are within Tolkien’s works, meaning what race (Elf, Dwarf, Men, etc) you are. Inspired by Germanic, Anglo-Saxon, and Norse myths and folktales, as well his own Christianity, Tolkien weaved a very clear picture of Fate and Freewill in The Silmarillion, as well his other works. These three things that very little in common, but Tolkien somehow worked it so that these very different concepts weave together to make a perfect, and frankly, sad picture. In many Norse and Germanic myths, every person is dictated by a great destiny (Fate) and no one no matter, how much they try can be free of that destiny (Fate). This differs from Christian mythos, where people have Free will and not a unavoidable destiny. Free will, for good or ill, is a gift from God, and being a devout Catholic, Tolkien felt that he needed to reconcile this in his works. He determined that some creatures in his world have the more Germanic-Nordic Fate while some have Christian-inspired Free will.

We see the later described most clearly in the chapter, Ainulindalë. In the Ainulindalë, which acts as a kind of creation myth for Middle-earth, it explains what forces willed the world into existence, as well as explains where Fate, as it relates to the creatures of this world, comes from. We see that there is a supreme God, Eru Ilúvatar, and his Ainur, who act as both minor Gods and Angels. Readers are told that in this myth Eru Ilúvatar instructed his Ainur to sing a great theme together and that theme will become the world, meaning that Middle-earth is basically sung into existence, or rather they try too. If Eru Ilúvatar and the Ainur are God and the angels, there has to be a Devil, and his name is Melkor, the greatest of all the Ainur. And it is he who starts messing up the theme from the perfection that Eru Ilúvatar first envisioned for his world with his own “loud, and vain” music (The Silmarillion, pg.18), but Eru Ilúvatar just starts over, only for it to be ruined again.

The last and final time, Ilúvatar rises sternly and raises his right hand to begin a third. Melkor tries to corrupt this theme with the volume of his music, but it is powerful enough to prevent him from succeeding. Eventually he shows the Ainur what they have created with their theme, which includes the lush world of Middle-earth, in which dwells Ilúvatar’s own personal creations the Elves and Men. He shows them thousands of years of history up until the domination of Men, and then instructs them if they want to be part of that they must leave his halls and join the world with the condition that they can not return to him until the end of the world, which many do (The Silmarillion, pg.15-22).

This story is significant because it blatantly shows us what Fate is to Tolkien, which is known in the text as the Music of the Ainur. A pre-oridanted plan that the powers of this world sung, according to Ilúvatar’s instruction, thus was his plan, all before any creature walked in Middle-earth. But it does not end here. In the chapter Beginning of Days, Tolkien throws a metaphorical curveball. As alluded to above, he explains that while some creatures are ruled completely and totally by Fate (or the Music of Ainur), in this cause, the Ainur, themselves, who came down into the world, now known as the Valar and Maiar, themselves and the Elves, who The Silmarillion describes as “them in the nature of Ainur” (The Silmarillion, pg. 41) some are completely free of it, like Men. This is also the reason why the later are immortal, while the latter is mortal. As long as the world exists, so will those creatures be bound to to the music that brought it to life; where if you die, you are not bound to the world, thus not bound to the music (Fate).

A common theme in The Silmarillion and other materials, is the fight between immortality and mortality, which in itself is a branch of the Fate debate in Tolkien works. As it is an Elf’s fate to stay tied to the world forever and never die (but instead to be reincarnated over and over again if they are slain). While Men are Fated, in a way, to die and leave the bounds of the world forever, this actually allows the Race of Men to have the truest Free will; not being bound to the music. In the The Silmarillion, it states Men “seek beyond the world and Fate no rest therein; but they should have virtue to shape their life…beyond the music of Ainur (pg.42), meaning their actions are free from the theme of the Ainur, but not meaningless. Contrast this to the Elves have purpose within the world but they had no freedom within this purpose; they are players in a grand play and can’t deviate from their script. However yet, there are many that still try and improvise to mix results.

Two great examples of fudging with Fate would be the love story of Beren and Lúthien, which is a tale of fighting against fate, versus the tragedy of Andreth and Aegnor, which is a tale of surrendering oneself to their fate.

Both are stories of romances between a immortal Elf and a mortal Human, both of whom share a great and deep love, but can never truly be together because of their clashing Fates, one being deathless and the other being fated to die, will tear them apart in the end, for that is the fate of Men and Elves.

The only thing is Beren and Lúthien overcome this fate and are united in death, while Aegnor and Andreth are forever sundered until the breaking of the world. Lúthien defies Fate by fighting it when her lover dies. She leaves to plead with the closest thing Tolkien has devised to a god of the dead, not unlike Orpheus from Greek mythology, to plead with him (Mandos) to plead with Ilúvatar himself to give her back her mortal Eurydice, her now dead Beren. And she gets her wish, her and Beren’s happy end, her only condition being that she too must becomes mortal, letting go of her Elvish life (her father, mother, and Elvish friends) for a mortal one to be with her true love in death, wherever Men go when they die (The Tale of Beren and Lúthien, J. R. R. Tolkien).

In contrast, Aegnor, a Elvish prince falls in love with a mortal wise women, Andreth, but instead of defying the stars and moving mountains to be with his one true love, as Elves are mentioned to love only once in their immortals life for the most part (Laws and Customs of the Eldar, pg.17), he leaves, he runs rather than fight for them. This is something that leaves both of them bitter, especially Andreth. Who saw this action as himself saying that she was not good enough for him, as sees himself as a supernaturally beautiful Elf and her a average mortal women (Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth, Ring of Morgoth, J.R.R. Tolkien).

The narrative shows Lúthien’s choice to defy Fate and fight as positive and rewards for it, while being more split on Aegnor. The narrative seems to show him pity, in a way portraying him (and Andreth) as sad victims, who had to make rough choices (but in their situation, the right ones) but at the same time putting his actions in a glaringly negative light. The two sides are shown by being represented in the take by Finrod, Aegnor’s brother, who is trying to get Andreth, who represents the negative, to understand why he did what he did, though even he never tries to forgive him (thus pitying him but not absolving him). Here the two are sundered by fate, separated by powers beyond their control. And to make matters worse, Aegnor, the immortal, dies before Andreth, the mortal, in battle as if life was burying one last knife into the back of these two tragic lovers. It is easy for one to read this as a narrative punishment for him as well, in the same vein of how Lúthien was rewarded.

This may make it seem that the narrative, thus Tolkien himself, is advocating for a person to defy their Fate though, it is not that simple. Don’t think that all one needs to do is have faith to give it a good try; just because Beren and Lúthien were lucky, their happy story is a rare one in The Silmarillion. More often things end badly for those who defy Fate, and are struck down without mercy by the act itself.

Those often struck down by fate are often described to be Doomed in Tolkien, as one reads deeper into The Silmarillion, Fate and Doom become one and the same for many of Tolkien’s characters, particularly the Elvish ones. The Noldor Elves, for example, are described as Doomed (Fated) to have both great glory and great tragedy when they travel to Middle-earth for their crimes during a time called the darkening which includes the genocide of the Teleri Elves (Of the Flight of the Noldor, The Silmarillion, pg.73-91). Particularly, the sons of Fëanor, who end up being characters who are both evil, though sympathetic to many readers. It is here we see Tolkien’s most Germanic-Nordic influences, because in typical Germanic-Nordic tradition Fate and Doom are the same. Life is a harsh mistress, and we, or at least the characters in these tales, as beings of this Earth, are merely playthings, and trying to deny one’s Fate is to only bring more Doom on yourself. To try and fight the powers that be is utterly fruitless because you will not win.

It is telling that the Elves of the First Age, where most of The Silmarillion take place, are shown throughout to be fiery, stubborn, and un-perfect characters who defy Fate and the powers of the world, and bring Doom onto them, this is far different from the wise, calm, borderline perfect creatures we see when we read The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings. One of the major themes, or lessons the Elves, as a group in universe, learn throughout all of the legendarium of Tolkien’s work is to accept their Fate, that all they love, fought, and bleed for in Middle-earth will fade and the Men will replace them. The Elves in later works no longer fight this Fate anymore, opting to just go where the music of Ainur take them. This is why we see them departing at the end of Lord of the Rings, happily in many cases like that of the Elf lady, Galadriel. But even then, it’s not entirely sweet. This might be their Fate to leave for a land as forever youthful as the Elves themselves, as the Undying lands (Valinor, in The Silmarillion) are, they still love Middle-earth and those within it and do not desire to leave it forever like they must. And it is this that many consider their Doom, no matter how much they love Middle-earth, they can never have it. Even those like the Green Elves, the Sindar, who have lived in Middle-earth for generations, it is their home, and have never known the Undying lands, but they must still leave it for fear of becoming like wraiths in constant pain, faded in a way.

In a lot of ways this echoes the story of Aegnor and Andreth, with Aegnor representing the Elves and Andreth representing Middle-earth, but also mortals, who many Elves see as brothers and sisters in-arms, as well as in some cases sons and daughters, like in the case of the Elf lord Elrond, and have centuries of great kinship with, both of which the Elves after the Third Age will be forever be parted from it.

But this is focusing on Elves, what about Men? Men have a very interesting place in both the context of Fate. As mentioned above, with the only creatures with Free will, Men don’t have a a unified destiny like the Elves do, with the exception of dying or vague general statements of facts like the Race of Men taking over control of Middle-earth as the dominant race after the Elves leave, but what they do in that time they control it is not Fated and up to the whims of future Men. Something much different than Elves. This leads into a big theme when it comes to Men and Fate, what constitutes as one man’s Fate and what is their own Free will?

And more importantly, how do those things come into conflict? Luckily, two of the most composed and polished stories focus on these Fate-linked themes, the first being the tales of Túrin Turambar and the fall of the great Mannish kingdom of Númenor.

The story of Túrin Turambar, one of the tragic characters that Tolkien has ever written, a was a mannish hero, who if Beren and Lúthien were a Eurydice and Orpheus with happy ending, they would be a walking Greek tragedy. He is cursed at a young age by Morgoth (the later name of Melkor, the living embodiment of evil), because of the deeds of his father who fought against Morgoth in the War of Wrath, and this leads Túrin to have a twisted life, which includes killing his best friend, and lover, the Elf, Beleg, then marrying his own sister, Niënor, and finally his own death after what should have been his biggest moment of triumph, slaying the dragon, Glaurung.

But as mentioned above, the Race of Men doesn’t usually have destinies like this, so how is Morgoth able to control Túrin’s Fate in this way to the point where eventually Túrin is so broken mentally and spent emotionally he commits suicide? Well, to put it simply it was both a mix of Morgoth’s curse, which in itself was just Morgoth putting the cards in the right way as it were so that Túrin always had the worst choices put in front of him, and Túrin’s own often prideful and blundering acts, that usually lead him into picking the worst choices over the better ones. This is a common theme with Fate and Men, where some outside force, here Morgoth, does something to affect the happens of a Man, or group of Men, does lead them on the path of ruin but it is by their own hand that leads to the end of that distatorius path. This can be seen in Túrin’s story where there were many times where he could have turned his life around. As the Music of the Ainur, Fate, gave Túrin some good opportunities, which he squandered. He could have asked for and received Thingol’s forgiveness rather than running off into the wilderness out of pride and adolescent angst; he could have listened to Beleg and returned to serve both men and elves, instead of running with the outlaws; he could have listened to Finduilas and Gwindor and reined in his pride, and not make Nargothrond such an obvious target. But he doesn’t, instead he takes the opinions that Morgoth has thrown at him and doesn’t realize it until it is too late (Of Túrin Turambar, The Silmarillion, pg 198-227).

It is said in The Silmarillion many times, as well as other works in the legendarium, that the Race of Men is weak, foolish, and quick to forsake reason, goodness, and light for illogical passions, cruelty, and evil, but I don’t think Tolkien ever saw it that way. Especially in the way he wrote about Men and Fate. In The Silmarillion, Ilúvatar himself, mentions that “Men will stray often from [himself],” (pg. 42) thus away from light and ‘goodness,’ and make some pretty dumb and bad choices but it is easy to wait and decide you’re options when you have forever to do so. Unlike his many Elven companions, who have ages to figure things out, to wait and plan, Túrin does not have that time, he is dying, as all Men are from the moment they are born. He only has one lifetime to make his mark on the world now. He wants to see his broken people restored, his kingdom returned to his people and out of the hands of the Easterling invaders. He is prideful and arrogant but he is hardly a bad person and almost all of his choices come from a want to do good. This is a common theme in a lot of Men driven stories.

By nature of their mortality, Men lack the foresight of their Elvish contemporaries, focusing on the here and now, because by nature, Men are present creatures while Elves live seemingly in the past but also the future. This kind of thinking gets Túrin, as well as other Men, to make a lot of bad choices, but how was he (Men), supposed to know the ending to his (their) own story before it’s even been written down? Túrin didn’t know he was cursed until he was thirty and killed himself only five years later. This is true for a lot of Men when they interact with fate, they bluster and many times their endings are their own fault, but it is often grown from a place of either a great want or great need, and the narrative often doesn’t condemn them for this, it pities them, in the same way that the narration in the tragedy of Aegnor and Andreth pitied them.

There is a reason in the final pages of Túrin’s story, his wife and sister laments before leaping to their own death, that he gave himself the name Turambar meaning ‘master of Fate’ only to be conquered by the very Doom (Fate) he hoped to master. This showing the ultimate pity of the narration.  

But not all Men get this pity for the narrative, Númenor sure doesn’t.

Númenor is a lot of things in the context of The Silmarillion.

In The Silmarillion, it is the first great city of Men, meaning made by Men for Men, it had the best navy in all Middle-earth that surpassed even the Elves, the beauty of the island kingdom was so great that no Elf could recreate it in Middle-earth. It was a shining a example of everything mankind had to offer the world and was a beacon of hope after centuries of hardship, that was until it fell into ruin and evil.  The story pulls from multiple inspirations including Atlantis and the Garden of Eden, but at its core, it is about a people fighting against their Fate, or in this case Men fighting their own mortality. While it is continuously mentioned that Men don’t have a destiny like in the way Elves do, they do however have a end point to their personal stories that no one, not even the gods, can take away: their death, which in many ways is the only thing that is Fated to men.

Many times throughout both The Silmarillion and other material, it is mentioned that Men have little faith in any gods, the Valar, having never had a chance to form a positive connection with them, and for many Men there is only one true god in their world and his name is Death. In the same way that it is natural for the Elves to go along with the music of Ainur, it is natural for Men to die, and as hinted at above, death is a gift from Ilúvatar. Going peacefully into death, whither through battle or old age, is narratively looked at as a positive by many stories, some even going as far as to have Men willing just stop living because they want too, or feel like they have passed their prime. In Tolkien it is only when Men try to avoid their gift, thinking as their death as a Doom, that the narrative openingly damns them. And this is the case for Númenor, whose people grew jealous of the long lives of the Elves, and wished to be immortal like them. The people started refusing to die, kicked all Elves out of their lands, then started to purge their influence from them as well, and then openingly wage war on the Undying lands (Valinor) to try and gain the land thinking it will make them immortal, even though many Elves and even messengers from the Valar told them otherwise (Akallabêth, The Silmarillion, pg. 257-283).

Though it is to be noted that much like Morgoth role in Túrin’s story, Sauron, who had been captured by the Númenoreans, had been corrupting the minds of the Númenoreans for sometime, capitalizing on their envy and resentment to urge them to more awful and awful deeds. Once again showing that that it is both a combination of beings of evil and also bad choices that lead Men to their ruin. Ruin, that in this case happens when they finally push too far trying to attack the Undying lands (Valinor) and the Elves within it and the Valar destroy the fleet that was coming as well as sink the island of Númenor back into the sea, effectively killing all but a few people who managed to escape and these refugees go on to create the kingdom of Gondor. It is to be noted here that unlike Túrin who fights Fate but is ultimately destroyed by it, and the narrative has pity on him, the narrative does not share the same pity for the people of Númenor. Instead it shows them apathy for their fighting of Fate, that their unwillingness to affect the most blessed gift their supreme god gave them as well as their greed was their downfall and it was necessary for it to happen. In a lot of ways is true, like Icarus, flying too close to the sun, a bunch of mortals challenge the gods and the gods strike them down, the Númenoreans affectively bite off more than they can chew. But in defense of them, death is a scary concept.

They are effectively the only race in Middle-earth that does not know what happens to them after death, no one does not even the Valar. Only Ilúvatar, and he keeps his lips sealed on the subject. And while, yes, many Elves, Valar, and Men alike think that there is something better on the other side for Men, they don’t know if its true and that can lead to a lot of anxiety, as well as envy for other races who seemingly do not suffer the pain of death and as the fear of the uncertainty of what happens to them afterward. But yet the narrative still deems it as damnation for the Númenoreans as well as unnatural.

This is extremely interesting, because unlike the Elves who universally received mostly pity from the narration over their lack of control in their own lives and being playthings to destiny, Men are a move messy case. Depending on what text you are reading, some Men get more sympathy from others. This is because Tolkien’s use of in universe writers for his stories.

While the stories of Elves are mostly written by an Elf, obviously, who would have a lot of melancholic sympathy for the Elves, themselves basically, who are Doomed, because Elves in Tolkien tend to be very self centered and think of only their pain, while ironically getting angry when others do not. They might easily have less sympathy for men, ironically this may because the Elves, in the same way Men envy immortality, they envy Men’s ability to die.

The Men writing the story of Túrin was most likely someone who lived years after him, and was writing about him as one would write about a famous mythological hero. While the fall of Númenor, was written by a bitter traditionalist who hated the Men in charge for leading his people of the kingdom to ruin because they wanted immortality.This was touched on briefly above where one was contrasting Beren and Lúthien’s story to Aegnor and Andreth and how the narration seemed to differ on how they portrayed their fights, or lack thereof, of Fate. Those who are looked at with pity or scorn by the narrative are wholly reliant on whither the person writing the piece liked them or not, and thus the why and how they’re fighting of Fate is justified, demonized, or something to be pitied is flexible from text to text.

Fate inside the world of Tolkien is a complex beast. To understand it, one needs more than just a passing understanding of just the concept. You need to understand that Fate is applied differently considering which race you are talking about, and even then the feelings that the text shows towards that Fate, Doom, and the person’s actions is wholly relied upon the person who is ‘writing the text’ inside the context of Tolkien’s universe and the different inspirations that Tolkien pulls from to form his universe concepts of Fate. In the works of Tolkien, Fate, Doom, and Free will all work together to form the actions of his characters, which in part form the story of the world he created. Tolkien’s works are messy and makes one think about what their own preconceptions. After reading one text and picking up another, this is what makes Tolkien so brilliant. Every story he creates has something different for everyone else writing fantasy, and inside his work there are no easy answers and to imply that his fiction is too ‘black and white’ is missing the forest for the trees.

#silmarillion #silm #my writing #turin turambar #beren and luthien #numenor #aegnor and andreth #tea with milk

[ta-ether]

a callout post for hadestown but a nice one where i just gush about the actors

nabyiah be: she’s like a smokey soprano, which i didn’t think existed? haven’t found another one yet. i love how she plays eurydice with such a strong soul yet with such vulnerability. i think eurydice in hadestown is a hard character to get right because she is caught between “i’m hungry” and love and nabyiah be manages to play her perfectly while also looking amazing. it’s not super important, but like, her eurydice is so beautiful and her hair is just. the best. i love it. i love it!

damon duanno: maybe my second favorite tenor? which is very high praise because first is michael arden. i really love a good tenor and damon duanno kills every song he’s in. orpheus in hadestown is a lot like eurydice in how you have to walk a line with the character. it would be so so easy to hate orpheus cos on paper he’s actually kind of the worst? but damon duanno plays him very good natured and naive and i just. can’t hate him. 

amber grey: ahhhh i love her! just, everything about her persephone is perfect. i love how she still loves hades, but that love has changed. it sounds like i don’t have a ton to say but that’s just because it’s hard to just write a paragraph about how good she is and not 10 page essay on her acting choices while playing persephone. prob my fave part is “you think they’ll make it? (i don’t know) hades, you let them go (i let them try) and how about you and i? do you think we’ll make it? (it’s almost spring. try again next fall.) wait for me? (i will)” because amber grey sounds so young? and i’m pretty sure that it’s actually just how she talks, but when she sings persephone she sounds so much older and jaded, but here she sounds young and unsure and it breaks my heart. 

patrick page: hey little songbird always makes everyone who i make listen to it do a double take. there aren’t enough bass roles out there but they’re all great. patrick page is such a good actor -- it would be really easy just to make hades a straight villian, but his acting combined with the lyrics make a genuinely complex person. special shoutout to build a wall which is always so sinister without being so caught up in it’s modern applicability. and the sunglasses. and “i missed ya.” 

chris sullivan: there’s this moment where hermes goes “guess it’s time to go” in way down hadestown and chris sullivan delivers it with like? whimsical menace? it’s a spicy meatball! so good! his sadness at the beginning of road to hell ii always makes what happened real even though the outcome was known already. it’s good shit. 

lulu fall, jessie shelton, shaina taub: are getting grouped together. anyway, the fates are so good -- i love how they serve as the greek chorus and also help enforce the fact that everything in this story’s inevitable. their harmonies are also just *chef’s kiss* and their voices blend in this lovely sort of weird almost dissonance? their costumes are also A+++. special love to lulu fall who was also an amazing helene understudy and she doesn’t get enough appreciation. 

special crew shoutouts: 

rachel chokin: was robbed at the tony’s. i can’t wait to see what else she does. there aren’t a ton of female directors of musicals and i hope she inspires more. 

anais michell: hadestown would be nothing without the music and lyrics. the music is so powerful and interesting and new, and the lyrics are all good with some special moments of genius. one of my faves is from hermes: “i’ll tell you where the real road lies. inside your ears, behind your eyes. that is the path to paradice, and likewise the road to ruin.” the best song is wait for me and wait for me ii. lyrics + music + performace is all batting 1000. 

#hadestown

[a-sweet-pea]

Orpheus stands before the lord of death with his harp held high, the last plaintive notes still ringing in the cavernous throne room. He fights to stay on his feet. The God’s gaze is a weight upon him he can hardly bear. Hades’ face is hard as carved stone; his expression unchanged.The same cannot be said for his wife.

* * *

Persephone's heart is ever full of spring, even in the dark of Tartarus. She has seen this mortal, Eurydice, walking the edges of the grey, shrouded in scarves, face blank as a river stone. Persephone wishes to see her in bloom, what beauty she must have had in life, in love. 

She asks a favor of her lord, to let the lovers return together to light and air and life. ‘After all, you shall have them again after a time. And think how great a young man’s passion must be, that he would travel to the under-world to snatch his beloved away; or even the upper-one.’ And she’s sees a change in his face visible only to one has been wed to him for a long time, and she smiles because she has won.

* * *

She is veiled when they bring her up. Orpheus reaches out to move the veil aside, but unseen shadow-hands turn his body away. He is not to touch, not even to look. Only to walk. Up, out, away, never looking back.

He feels fingers interlock with his, cold as bones. He trusts they are hers, he has no choice.

Somehow, the way up is worse than the way down. The silence, save for his footsteps on wet stone. Where is the other pair?

He tries to banish these thoughts, these doubts weaving webs in his mind. The promise of a God is not a thing to be taken lightly.

But the silence is pitiless and cavernous and unrelenting. He wishes he could pluck up some courage, or his harp, but dares not loose his grip on the cold hand.

If I could only be certain, he thinks. If I could only see her eyes, it would give me strength. But he cannot. He must not. Yet what are the laws of Death to the commands of love?

He turns. For a moment she is behind him, then there is only mist. The grey air of something lost.

You have disobeyed. The voice of Hades in his fury if the loudest sound there has ever been; it drives him to his knees. Leave, and do not return but by the grave. For a long time, he does not leave, he does not move at all. Then, as if pushed by the heel of a massive hand, he is forced up, out, into the brightness.

* * *

A silhouette appears in the meadow; one that Persephone had hoped not to see again. The frail figure of a woman bewildered and upset, searching for her lover. And then, the life that was returned leaves her like a sigh. Her arms fall limply to her sides and she looks up toward a sky she cannot see. Her eyes are empty.

That will not do. The Goddess rises from her throne and walks toward the meadow. The ground turns green and growing beneath her steps, leaving flowered footprints that slowly fade. Men are fools, men in love doubly so. The denizens of the underworld cannot see her, but they rush to the places she has trod, crowding the little plots of green while they remain. It is not his fault, his heart is frail, sensitive.

So Persephone, queen of budding flowers, bends to pluck the lifeless figure from the dirt. He will leave without his beloved, she thinks, closing her hand around the girl without protest. That much shall be as my lord wills it. She lifts her hand high, closed in a fist, and kisses it. But I too am a god.  When she uncurls her fingers, there is no girl, but a seed, small and smooth as a river stone.

And soon it will be Spring.

* * *

Eurydice awakens, which is strange. Stranger still, it is to light and color such as is not seen in the Meadows of Asphodel; the sullen wasteland of her endless wandering. But if not there, then where? And how? She remembers the sound of a harp, the breath of life on her cheek. She remembers holding a warm hand and walking upward, up, and…then nothing.

Now, there is lush green and sparkling blue, rustling and rushing water. Life in all its sights and sounds, greater and grander than she has ever known.

This must be Elysium. 

But if this is the field of paradise, why is there an ache in her chest? Why does she yearn? And what for?

She sits at the edge of a crystal sea and watches the earth renew from the ground up. Grasses grow tall as olive trees, the trees blossom so high above that they are as great pink clouds. Fragrant bergamot wafts from the orange groves in the valley beyond her view. The world stretches out further than can be imagined, but she stays where she is.

She waits, for days, for weeks, for something, not knowing what it is until it comes.

A sound, a voice, heavy with melancholy. It is deep and distant as thunder but sweeter than the songs of birds. 

It cries out, ‘Fool' and 'Wretched creature, to lose the only treasure in this world worth having.' She responds in a small, but persistent voice, calling out a name she knows and does not know.

And she can see him now, stepping out from between the towering trees. A God. For a moment, she is afraid. To be carried away from this brightness and back to that gray place is a thing she could not bear. But what can she do against such a mighty thing?

He is young and strong, draped in a tunic of rich crimson. It must be Eros whose beauty is beyond measure, because heavy laden with sorrow as it it, his face is more beautiful than the flowers or the clear lake or the sun itself. She knows that face, knows the thoughtful brow and curving lips as though she has kissed them.

Not Eros. Orpheus.

And all of a sudden her heart strains against her chest as if to leap out entirely, because she remembers. 

 * * *

The forest and field where once Orpheus roamed are dead now, just as Orpheus is dead.  The trees, the flowers, the babbling brook, the man; their beauty is unchanged, but it is as though their spirits have left them. 

Gone the nymphs and satyrs who would delight in his harp, frolicking on other hills now, to other music. Their sympathy was short-lived, they could not understand why he ceased to play. And indeed, Orpheus plays no more. The song has left his heart.

He walks slowly now over the hills to the wilderness. He thinks more than he speaks, and when he speaks it is in lamentation. Echo alone attends him, as she does all those who cry aloud into the wilderness. Her responses are distant and soft at first but grow as he treads the old paths through the forest.

The better he hears it, the more it becomes clear; the voice of Echo is not returning his laments word for word, as she is accustomed. Rather, she calls his name with a tender voice. Orpheus.

At the edge of a clear lake, a Narcissus flower grows alone among the weeds and brambles. It shines among it’s neighboring flowers as his Eurydice did among all women, and it calls to him with her voice.

He approaches. The pale gold and white petals are not petals at all, but gathered fabric of a gown that is as known to him as his own hand. The dress Eurydice wore when when they were wed. Such beauty, made profane in death. It had shone bright as Apollo’s Chariot as the flames engulfed her pyre, stinging his eyes. 

But here it is now, unburnt, and in it’s delicate folds a flower more beautiful by far than the Narcissus.

She startles like a bird at the reach of his hand, but it is not in his power to restrain himself. He gathers her up in his hands and brings her to his face. Like the figure of a goddess carved of marble and yet more sacred than any idol of any temple; his Eurydice, alive again.

She stretches her arms out to him, and he brings her to his breast, trembling though it is, on the edge of weeping. He can feel delicate hands run over the folds of his tunic, gripping tight. She buries her face in it, dampening it with her tears. Even muffled by the fabric he can hear her voice, her wonderful voice, laughing and crying, his name on her lips repeating, ‘Orpheus, my life, my love. Orpheus.’

* * *

And high above the lovers, moving over the fields like a warm breeze, Persephone smiles, content that Spring is returned in full, at last.

Author’s Note:

Do not ask me how many times I have listened to Monteverdi’s Orfeo, the opera that was the inspiration for this piece, because I have not been keeping track. Three full times today, if that gives you an idea.

I wrote this during the small spaces between tasks at work, so if it feels a bit disjointed thats because it is. I hope it comes across well enough anyway.

90% of my writing is dialogue-heavy, so this was quite a departure for me, but I felt like writing something with this weird sort of style, so here it is. Also I don’t think I’ve ever written anyGreek Mythology fan fiction, so thats a new one too.

I’ve been writing G/T fluffiness since around the age of 15, but I rarely if ever post them out in the world. This is my first Tumblr, and my first social media anything focusing on G/T. I’m a long-time lurker in the shadows of greater artists than I, particularly on deviantart, and I would shout out the names of all my favorites if could remember all of them but I can’t and I don’t want to leave anyone out so I wont.

If you like this and your want more, tell me! I am fueled almost entirely by positive feedback and dark roast espresso.

This author’s note is long enough to be its own piece of flash fiction called ‘I’m Nervous About Posting G/T Fiction On the Internet” so I’m gonna go ahead and wrap it up. Hopefully this isn’t the last you’ll hear from me,

-Sweet Pea

#giant/tiny #g/t fluff #g/t writing #mythology #orpheus #eurydice #opera #fiction #short fiction #greek mythology #greek gods #hades #hades and persephone #persephone #first time #gts #goddess #gods #monteverdi #giant #my writing #sweetpea #g/t

[pamphletstoinspire]

Catholic Physics - Reflections of a Catholic Scientist - Part 37

God's Gift to Man, Redux - 2: Music, Sacred and Profane

"This so-called ‘music,’ they would have to concede, is in some way efficacious to humans. Yet it has no concepts, and makes no propositions; it lacks images, symbols, the stuff of language. It has no power of representation. It has no relation to the world." Oliver Sacks, The Power of Music *

"Did you write the book of love, And do you have faith in God above, If the Bible tells you so? Do you believe in rock n'roll, Can music save your mortal soul?" Don McLean, American Pie

INTRODUCTION

As I listened to the NY Philharmonic's New Year's eve concert, "La Vie Parisienne", a post I wrote some time ago came to mind: on the power of music to shape our devotion in the Church.  Now, the music I had been listening to was not by any means sacred music; Offenbach's Orpheus in the Underworld Overture, including the beautiful love song to Eurydice and that infamous "Can Can".  Nevertheless, the love song evoked emotion, as did Can Can, but of a different kind.

The week before I had been immersed in Christmas Carols, playing the alto clarinet for our parish instrumental group (harmony, tenor line of chorus or cello part).  Before the Christmas Vigil Mass, we played "Child of the Poor/What Child is This" , beautiful counterpoint with tenor/baritone, tenor/soprano duets. While playing Silent Night, I thought "what a change from my childhood", when as a Jew, I had believed that I would betray my people by listening to the carol, even though it sounded so beautiful.

But back to what this post is about.  I'm going to repost the earlier material and add some thoughts on how music has been corrupted by a modernist hedonist culture.  Let me preface these remarks with an apology--I'm not a musician and not an expert in liturgical music; for a more informed view, there are other sources; the one I prefer is The Chant Cafe.

MUSIC, THE OTHER ROAD TO ADORATION

My first encounter with the power of music in liturgy came at a 40 Hours devotional service. (See Top Down to Jesus) .   I had been preparing for entry into the Church and although on rational grounds I had come to believe in the Resurrection and its implications, there were matters of dogma I found difficult to understand, particularly that important one, transubstantiation, the change of the substance of the host into the body of Christ.  As the monstrance was carried in during the procession of the 40 Hours service, Tantum Ergo was played, and as I read in the missal:

"Præstet fides supplementum, Sensuum defectui."

enough of my high school Latin came back, "faith will supplement the deficiency of the senses", for me to realize in my heart, that the wafer, the host, was the body of Christ, that it was mystery beyond science and philosophy, and my eyes filled with tears.  St. Thomas Aquinas wrote great works of theology and philosophy, but perhaps his hymns are the most effective way he has led people to God.

Other liturgical music has struck to my heart in ways no homily or theological text seems to do.  During my first Easter Vigil Mass The Litany of the Saints was played, and an overwhelming vision of the history of the Church and all its holy people came to me.  During Vespers at St. Vincent Archabbey (attended during retreat as a Benedictine Oblate) a great peace and understanding came over me as I listened to the strong voices chanting the psalms.

Other music, not liturgical--Bach (the B minor Mass), Ralph Vaughan William's Dona Nobis Pacem, will bring me to thoughts of God. Peter Kreeft's saying "If Bach exists, there must be a God" is echoed by many.  

Hymns that I want to be played at my funeral have made their mark: Amazing Grace, Shall We Gather by the River, Jerusalem my Happy Home, The Lord of the Dance (old and corny pieces from evangelical churches, for the most part).  And there are those I play with the instrumental group at Church, It is Well with my Soul, Panis Angelicus, Mozart's Ave Verum, The King of Love My Shepherd Is, Old 100th and so many others. (I play the alto clarinet, not well, but enough to provide harmony--a tenor or bass voice, since I can't sing on key.)

One thing should be clear: it isn't the music by itself that is moving, but the total situation: liturgy, congregation, and the words.  I could read

"Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,That saved a wretch like me.I once was lost but now am found,Was blind, but now I see.T'was Grace that taught my heart to fear.And Grace, my fears relieved.How precious did that Grace appearThe hour I first believed." Liberty Lyrics John Newton

It would be moving, but it is the combination of the words that reflect my own experience AND the music that brings me to tears of joy. I could read the verses of Tantum Ergo and Pange Lingua, but it would not be meaningful without the presence of Christ's body, the procession, the Benediction, and the congregation sharing this experience.

Am I only being sentimental and not truly devoted to the austere beauty of liturgy in my reaction to this music--too catholic (with a lower-case c)?  Some Church liturgists might think so.

"It is not surprising that Church leaders have doubted whether the feelings which music arouses are truly religious. Music's power to fan the flames of piety may be more apparent than real..."Anthony Storr, Music and the Mind  

SING A NEW SONG TO THE LORD

"Sing unto the LORD with the harp; with the harp, and the voice of a psalm. With trumpets and sound of cornet make a joyful noise before the LORD, the King." Psalm 98:5,6 (KJV)

The Hebrews did not worry about music being a distraction from devotion to the Lord.  David danced in the procession to the altar and the psalms say "Sing to the Lord a new song, play the lute, the lyre and the harp, sound the trumpets".  St. Augustine, entranced by music, was concerned that this power might enable the senses to overcome the intellect in worship:

"So I waver between the danger that lies in gratifying the senses and the benefits which, as I know, can accrue from singing....I am inclined to approve of the custom of singing in church, in order that by indulging the ears weaker spirits may be inspired with feelings of devotion. Yet when I find the singing itself more moving than the truth which it conveys, I confess it is a grievous sin, and at those times I would prefer not to hear the singer. [emphasis added]" St. Augustine, Confessions

The last sentence in the quote is the foundation for the expulsion of music from the Church in Calvinist sects (read "The Warden" by Anthony Trollope).  I cannot subscribe to that view. I am one of St. Augustine's weaker spirits.  I believe God gave many, many gifts to man in giving him intelligence: language, mathematics, music, art.  Music has the power to heal the soul (as Oliver Sacks shows in Musicophilia) and to bring one closer to God.  We give joy to God when we rejoice in music, not only to praise Him, but to rejoice in life (l'Chaim)

AND THE PROFANE

I'll not say much about that music which leads us away from God--Gangsta Rap, Hip-Hop, and all the perversions of popular music--other than to curse it and its practitioners to an eternity of Gregorian chant. (As with Fr. Groeschel's prayer for the singer Madonna, that she be reverted and go to a cloistered nunnery.) I was forced to bear with milder versions of such during a trip, carrying a grandson back to college.  Is this music a cause or a symptom of what's wrong with our society?

This music appeals only to an immediate gratification, to the brutish impulses to dominate, to have that which we desire without thought of consequences or morality. It leads away from God, not to Him.  I'm not a proponent of censorship, but...  So, is there a Gresham's law of music? Does bad music drive out good?  At concerts the age distribution is weighted heavily to those with white or no hair.  On the other hand, I was happy to see at a chamber music concert at a local university a high proportion of undergraduates.  There may be hope.

Perhaps what we need to do as parents and grandparents is to introduce our children to the joys of good music. We can't assume that their musical taste is totally corrupted.  Trade a half an hour of hip-hop for a half-hour of light classics and bring them to concerts at an early age.  And finally, bring good, serious music to the Liturgy.

A FINAL THOUGHT

In music, as is in all else, God has given us Free Will: the freedom to make a choice between good and evil.

NOTE

*This quote, to show what a strange gift music is, comes from Arthur C. Clarke's classic "Childhood's End", in which an alien species comes to guide mankind from childhood to maturity.  The very intelligent aliens do not understand the power of music.  They go to a concert, listen politely and come away wondering.

Ed. Note:

I am sorry that I cannot properly display all the various pictures or tables on the post. They will, however, be displayed on the pamphlet containing this post, and a link will be provided for your convenience.

From a series of articles written by: Bob Kurland - a Catholic Scientist

#catholic physics

[jennycalendar]

orpheus

i wrote this for @strelkatherocketdog and now that she’s read it, i’m posting it here as well!!!

so here it is. a modern giles/jenny orpheus-and-eurydice au. some inspiration taken from the ats episode “the trial.”

and it’s on ao3! it’s a long one

Rupert had been out for a few hours longer than he’d said he would be; business must have picked up at the Magic Box. Never mind that the Magic Box was rarely very busy, or that he always sent one of the kids to tell her if he would be late for dinner. Jenny would wonder later why she didn’t stop and think, and suspect that it was because she didn’t want to worry. Or maybe she didn’t think that anything bad would happen to Rupert. She loved him too much for that.

She was reading a book, settled comfortably in a chair near the fire, one of Rupert’s jackets draped around her shoulders, when she heard footsteps. Light, like Willow’s, but strangely slow. Jenny felt the beginnings of worry in her chest, putting her book down slowly. Something didn’t feel right.

Willow came in. There was a shaken, horrified look on her face. Jenny didn’t have to hear it to know, and it didn’t matter how it happened anyway. Slow or quick, vampire or accident, knowing what took her husband away wasn’t going to bring him back to her.

Buffy came over, later, and Xander. Never mind that Jenny wanted to be alone. Buffy settled into the sofa and didn’t say anything; Xander filled the silence with nervous babble that seemed to grate in Jenny’s ears. She focused on her book and waited for them to leave.

“You aren’t going to say anything?” Buffy’s voice was small, but still knife-sharp. “Ms. Calendar, Giles is dead.”

Jenny turned a page of her book and cut her finger on the paper.

“He’s dead, and you’re just sitting there reading.”

Jenny put down the book and got up to go get a bandage, hurrying away from the kids and into the bathroom.

“Don’t do that,” she heard Willow saying tearfully to Buffy in the living room. “She’s more hurt than any of us, Buffy, remember when you almost lost Angel?”

Jenny opened the bathroom cabinet as loudly as she could, trying to drown out their voices, and almost ripped the small cabinet door off its hinges. She fumbled with the box of bandages before getting it open on the second try, at which point her legs gave way a little and she sunk to a sitting position on the floor. Her finger was still bleeding.

She didn’t know how she was feeling. Empty, mostly. Like some vital part of her had been scooped out and thrown away when she’d heard that Rupert was dead. It wasn’t as simple as denial, and it wasn’t as convoluted as guilt.

Someone knocked on the door. Jenny didn’t know how to find the words to tell them whether or not to come in, so she began to work on bandaging her finger instead.

“Ms. Calendar?” There was a note of anxiety in Willow’s voice. The kids had known for hours before, Jenny realized. They’d found the body. They’d had to tell her. If she could, she would feel sorry for putting them through that.

Another knock, and then, “Okay, I’m just going to come in.”

Jenny finished with the bandage as Willow sat down next to her, resting her head on Jenny’s shoulder. She didn’t know what to say, and didn’t even know if she could find it in herself to speak.

“Buffy’s grieving,” Willow said, slowly and carefully. “You are too, I think. I just don’t know if she’s in a place to understand that you’re not going to be loud about it.” She hesitated, then, “I think she hoped someone would be loud about it.”

Jenny nodded slowly and let Willow take her hand. “You’re a smart kid,” she said finally. Her throat closed up a little and she suddenly realized why, exactly, she’d been trying not to say anything. It had been a very long time since she’d wanted to cry like this.

Willow bit her lip. “I don’t know if I’m smart enough,” she replied quietly. “And—I don’t mean that like you’re supposed to stroke my ego, right now, because I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose someone you loved that much, but—” She looked over at Jenny and said somewhat tearfully, “I just wish I could help you.”

Jenny hugged her. It was a little awkward; she wasn’t much of a hugger. Willow was, though, and that sort of saved the hug. Rupert was a hugger too, actually. Had been, Jenny thought, and the shock of grief that hit her then was enough for her to pull away from Willow, hard.

“I have to go,” she said, suddenly.

“What—” Willow looked frightened by this. “Ms. Calendar, no, you need—”

“Some air,” said Jenny. There was a tightness in her chest and she wouldn’t let Willow see her cry. “I need some air. I’ll be right back.” She got up clumsily—why hadn’t she taken off her heels? She should have factored that fashion choice in. You never know when the kids are going to come home to tell you your husband’s dead, and it’s hard to walk steadily in heels with that news weighing on you. Jenny felt nauseous, and she felt like crying, and she felt that gnawing emptiness, all in one. She didn’t look at Buffy as she hurried out of the apartment.

Being outside was better, and it was worse. Jenny remembered standing out here with Rupert, wearing his overcoat. I’m London-born, he was saying, laughing as she wrapped her arms around his waist to make sure he was warm too. This is practically summer for me, darling.

No one had called her darling before. Or maybe they might have, but it had never really felt like something special until Rupert, who had barely been able to use the informal Jenny even when they were friends. She knew he wasn’t the type to give out pet names so easily.

Hadn’t been.

She was still wearing Rupert’s coat, wrapped around her from when she’d been reading the book on the sofa. He’d draped it around her shoulders before he’d left for the shop, telling her to keep warm. But Jenny had never been this cold before, and she didn’t know if she’d ever feel warm again.

“Hey.”

Jenny turned. Buffy was standing next to her, expression unreadable. “Hi,” she replied, inclining her head quietly before digging her hands into the pockets of Rupert’s coat. Or—did the coat belong to him at all if he was dead? She decided not to think about it.

“I’m sorry,” said Buffy.

Jenny shook her head distantly. “He’s dead,” she said. It came out hollow.

“I—” Buffy hesitated. Then, “I know—it’s different for you. It has to be. But—I loved him too.”

Jenny smiled slightly.

“If that helps.”

“It does.” Jenny took her hands out of her pockets, bringing her arms close to her chest. “A little.”

Buffy nodded. “I’m gonna go inside and make dinner,” she said carefully. “I know you’re not much of a cook.”

And suddenly that was it for Jenny. It was so stupid, really, that that was the thing that made her so determined to find a way to get her husband back. But no one was going to be there to cook, and Rupert had always said she’d burn down the house if he left her alone (lovingly, laughingly, over morning coffee), and wouldn’t he be so upset if she died from a cooking fire instead of the dramatic and heroic death he always seemed to think she was destined for? “Yeah,” she said, and fumbled in her pocket for her car keys. “Listen, I have to do some research. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Ms. Calendar—”

“Mrs. Giles,” said Jenny. The name had to live on somehow.

She didn’t find much in the Magic Box, but there was blood on the floor of the store. Her husband’s blood. Not a lot, but enough to make Jenny dizzy and sick. She hadn’t seen the body yet, and she didn’t want to. She didn’t even know how he died; she hadn’t been able to hear the kids when they were telling her.

The kids weren’t here, which was a good thing, because the reality of the situation had finally caught up with Jenny. Rupert was dead. Rupert was dead. The best thing in her world, and he’d died like he was just another Sunnydale casualty. Jenny felt her knees give way (again) and suddenly she was crying.

Rupert hadn’t ever seen her cry like this. There was that as a comfort. But then she was thinking about how horrified he’d be to see her like this, how worried and flustered, how his eyes would get all anxious and he’d sit down next to her, hands fluttering from her hair to her face to her shoulders. He never seemed to know what to do when she cried, and she loved him for it.

Loved. She couldn’t love, because he was dead. And he’d already given her the if-I-die-don’t-resurrect-me speech, so dark magic wasn’t exactly an option. He’d be so upset with her if she did that. Jenny wiped her face with the sleeve of Rupert’s coat, and some of her makeup came off, which made her giggle semi-hysterically and bury her face in her hands.

She wished she’d died instead of him. It would save her all the trouble of having to deal with all these feelings. Jenny wasn’t really big on lots of complex and passionate emotions; it was so much easier to just keep herself detached and coquettishly sarcastic. But then Rupert had showed up, and fucked that idea up completely, and she’d been fine with that until he’d gone and died on her.

Jenny took a shuddering, shaky breath in and finally managed to look up at the empty store. She had some research to do. Proper research, not crying-on-the-ground research.

“What are you doing?”

Anya’s sharp voice cut through the empty silence. Jenny scrambled to get up off the floor, trying to look as composed as she could. “Hey,” she said awkwardly.

“Why is there blood on the floor?” Anya added. “That’ll scare off the customers.”

Oh, God, she doesn’t know. “I—” Jenny swallowed. “You should go head over to my place. The kids will explain.”

“What happened here?” Anya asked with unusual nervousness.

“I—”

Anya pressed her lips together before saying uneasily, “Is everyone okay?”

Jenny tried to think of something to say. Part of her couldn’t really bring herself to say it. She hadn’t yet said it aloud, and words had lasting power. If she admitted out loud that Rupert was dead, maybe there would be no way of getting him back. “No,” she said finally.

“Giles is dead, isn’t he?”

Jenny felt the words like a physical blow. “I need to—go,” she said shakily. “I was—I need to leave.”

Anya swallowed hard. “Xander isn’t at home,” she said in a strangled voice. “And when I headed over to Giles’s place, everyone was there but him and you. And now you’re here in the Magic Box and there’s blood on the floor and if Giles was anything but dead, you’d be with him.” She took a step forward, catching Jenny’s hands. “Your hands are cold,” she added. “I think you need to sit down.”

“I have research to do,” Jenny replied shortly, trying to pull away from Anya’s grip.

“Research on what?” Anya looked honestly befuddled.

“Getting him back.”

For a moment, Jenny almost regretted telling Anya. She wasn’t even sure why she had. Maybe it was because Anya was older than the kids, even if she didn’t act like it. Maybe it was because she wanted to justify why she was researching in the place where her husband died instead of actually grieving like a normal person. Either way, it turned out to be the right decision, because after a moment, Anya’s jaw set and she said, “Then I think I can help.”

They packed their things. They might have had to do it surreptitiously under other circumstances, but then Anya said that no one was expecting either of them to leave, so no one would really be on the lookout. Jenny didn’t pack all that much; nothing really seemed important anymore and she couldn’t bring herself to fuss over outfit choices. Rupert was the fussy packer of them both. He was. And he would still be, because Anya said she knew how to get him back.

She found one of her old necklace chains and strung Rupert’s wedding ring from it, fastening it around her neck. Willow had given it to her when she’d returned, saying something about managing to get it before Buffy called the police.

There was a spot of blood on the metal. Jenny didn’t know whether to leave it there or wipe it away, and decided not to do anything about it until she was sure of what she wanted. Throwing her bag over her shoulder, she hurried out of the apartment (it didn’t feel like home anymore, not really) to where Anya was waiting by the car.

“You ready to drive?” Anya asked. “Or should I drive? I read somewhere that grieving people are more prone to irrational behavior, and if that includes running us into a stop sign or something—”

“I’m not a time bomb,” said Jenny shortly, and took the keys from Anya. “So where’s this friend of yours located?”

“Oh, he’s not a friend exactly,” said Anya awkwardly. “He happened to be in the vicinity a few years ago when I was, uh,” she looked away from Jenny, “enacting some vengeance.”

“I see.”

“And I heard of him from D’Hoffryn, who always knows about this kind of thing, so my intel is pretty good on this one.” Anya opened the car door, getting in and buckling her seatbelt. Jenny followed suit, starting up the car. “He’s in LA, so we might have to drive for a while.”

“Sure,” said Jenny.

“Are you sure you can stay awake that long?” Anya inquired curiously.

Jenny thought of Rupert’s smile, the way his eyes radiated warmth. “Yes,” she said. Her voice sounded breakable, like it might shatter and take her along with it.

She stayed awake the whole night, and then some, driving and driving until the sun came up. She felt tired, but it was a tired that was easy to shake off when she was reminded of how important it was to get Rupert back. As quickly as possible, really. He wouldn’t even know he’d been gone. He’d come back, and he’d be all right. It would be all right.

Anya was asleep in the seat next to her. Jenny envied the peaceful look on her face. She sometimes wondered if Anya really even loved Xander, or if she just loved the idea of Xander. Normalcy must be hard to come by if one is an ex-vengeance demon, and maybe Xander was as normal as normal could get in Anya’s eyes. Maybe it was safer if Anya didn’t love Xander. Maybe Jenny hoped Anya didn’t love Xander, because someday Xander might die, and that peaceful look would be gone.

Her hands were tight around the steering wheel, and it was only when they started to ache that she remembered the way Rupert used to (everything was past tense now; she hated it) reach over and uncurl her fingers when she was angry.

When sunlight started streaming in through the car windows, Anya stirred. “We there yet?” she mumbled, rubbing an eye.

“Five minutes, I think,” Jenny replied. “If we’re going by your directions.”

Anya yawned luxuriously, stretching as she sat up, and then turned to Jenny. “How are you?” she asked.

“Tired,” said Jenny, and found that it was true, but couldn’t uncurl her fingers from the steering wheel.

“No, I—” Anya shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not good with this kind of thing,” she said finally. “I get the feeling Willow did it better. But you’re all hard edges and I haven’t seen you smile once.”

“My husband is dead,” Jenny said tersely.

“I know.” Anya wrung her hands. “But—but we’re going to get him back, so you can smile! It’s going to be okay. All of it. Pinky swear, Ms. Calendar—”

“Mrs. Giles,” said Jenny for the second time.

“I thought you didn’t change your name when you got married?” Anya inquired, distracted from whatever it was she was trying to do. Cheer Jenny up, perhaps.

“I’m changing it now.”

“You sound like Xander when he wants me to shut up.” Anya hesitated again. Then, “Mrs. Giles. I know you’re upset. But I want you to be okay.”

“Wanting,” said Jenny, pulling the car to a stop, “doesn’t make things happen. Is this the place you said your friend was at?”

“Jenny—”

“Anya, I don’t want your sympathy,” Jenny replied, finally looking away from the road to meet Anya’s eyes. “I don’t need to be okay right now. It doesn’t matter if I’m okay, because I’ll be okay when we get him back. Got it?”

Anya nodded, still not looking quite convinced. “If this doesn’t work—”

“It is going,” said Jenny fiercely, “to work.” She opened the door and got out of the car, looking up at the building. “Is this—”

“Round the back,” Anya replied, getting out of the car herself and beginning to head towards a small door, ostensibly leading into a backyard. She looked back at Jenny, who hadn’t moved from her position next to the car. “You coming?”

“Just a sec,” Jenny replied. Anya turned and continued to walk. Jenny reached for the chain around her neck, lifting it up, and pressed a light kiss to Rupert’s wedding band. That terrifying grief tugged at her chest again, and she dropped the ring, hard, letting the chain keep it close to her heart. She hurried to catch up with Anya.

“A swimming pool,” said Jenny skeptically.

“I did say round the back,” Anya replied. “But I think you’re going to have to go the rest of it alone. I’ll wait, uh,” she gestured vaguely, “around here.”

“An empty swimming pool.” Jenny looked up at Anya. “How long has it been since you’ve seen this guy?”

“You know what to do,” said Anya cryptically, and took out a pair of sunglasses from her purse, heading over to a nearby lounge chair. “You just have to take the plunge.”

“Take the—” Jenny threw her hands up in exasperation, stepping closer to the swimming pool. The bottom was concrete, and looked like an unpleasant landing. She thought she could make out a few pieces of jagged glass. Glancing over at Anya, she saw that her companion was sitting somewhat anxiously in the lounge chair, sunglasses perched on her head. Apparently, cool and unbothered wasn’t really Anya’s thing anymore. Maybe Rupert’s death had affected more people than she realized.

No. No, Rupert wasn’t dead. Rupert wasn’t going to stay dead, at least. Jenny looked over at Anya, looked back at the diving board—

The glass twinkled in the sunlight at the bottom of the pool, and Jenny was reminded of the way Rupert’s glasses caught the sunlight on a warm summer day, right before he leaned in for a kiss. “Damn it,” she said quietly, fingers closing over her husband’s wedding ring, and sprinted up to the diving board, taking a running leap into the empty swimming pool.

The last thing she heard was Anya’s terrified shriek, and then she felt a strange sort of pulling sensation that didn’t exactly feel like hitting hard concrete. She landed on her feet in a dark room, and reeled a little, sleep deprivation beginning to catch up to her.

So. Anya had been right.

Jenny looked up, and saw a gentleman wearing a butler’s uniform surveying her curiously. “It’s quite uncommon for one such as yourself to find their way here,” he said. “Usually it’s champions who come seeking glory, but I suppose we can—”

“Cut the crap,” said Jenny testily. “What do I have to do to get my husband back?”

The butler guy blinked. “Well, you certainly have faith,” he said. “Motivated by love—how romantic. Somewhat maudlin, I expect, given the nature of these trials—”

“I’m not here for trials.” Jenny stared down the butler. “If I have to, I’ll fight you. I want Rupert back, and there’s no power on earth that can tell me he doesn’t deserve to live. You’ll give him to me right now or I’ll let your trials kill me on the spot.”

The butler now looked completely nonplussed. “Er,” he said.

Jenny quirked an eyebrow at him. “They’re not really trials if I’m not trying,” she said. “And aren’t you Powers all about fairness? You’ll never know whether or not I’m worthy if I let myself die. Maybe I’m a martyr, or maybe I’m just kinda crazy. Either way, you’ve wasted your time with me. Give me my husband back.”

“You cannot just ask for life from the Powers that Be,” said the butler, now seeming somewhat irritable at this concept. “There must be something you will give us in return.”

“Tech support,” said Jenny.

The butler just looked at her.

“Well, okay, you’re all omnipotent powers, so I guess you don’t need computers,” Jenny said, “which is pretty ridiculous, if you ask me, because I feel like it would really give you a sense of perspective on the way the world works today. Maybe you’d be more willing to give life to people who deserve it.”

The butler continued to just look at her. Then he said, “Do you truly love this man?”

“More than anything,” said Jenny, trying her best to keep her voice sharp and assertive. It broke a little in the middle.

“And do you truly believe that we are unwise to give him back to you?”

“He doesn’t need me,” Jenny replied. Her voice was suddenly unsteady. She hadn’t thought beyond getting Rupert back, and doubt was beginning to set in. Was he at peace? Was he happy? She didn’t even know how he died. “He needs to live.”

The butler nodded slowly. Then, “If you are so certain that you are wiser than the Powers, and if there is no doubt in your heart, then I will only set you one trial, with no penalty to you should you fail. You have more bravery than many of the people who come here.”

“No,” said Jenny, laughing bitterly. “No. I’m just an idiot in love.”

The butler ignored this. “If you can walk up that stairway,” he gestured towards a winding spiral staircase, through which Jenny thought she could make out the early morning light she’d left behind, “without looking back once, know that we have given your husband the choice to follow you.”

“I’m sorry?” Jenny wasn’t sure what she’d missed. “What do you mean by the choice?”

“He may choose to live, or he may choose to remain at peace,” the butler replied simply. “If you truly love him, you will trust in his ability to make that choice.”

For the first time, Jenny felt a flicker of doubt in her plan. Sure, she could bring Rupert back, but she hadn’t considered the possibility that he might actually be at peace. He had filing to do, and bills to pay, and a wife who loved him, and she’d thought that maybe he’d want to come back for her sake. It was selfish of her to think that, maybe. Maybe he would just come back to make her happy, when he’d wanted to stay dead all along. She didn’t know if she could force him into that.

“Well?” The butler looked at her inquisitively.

Jenny thought of leaving here alone and telling Anya she hadn’t been able to go through with it. She’d go home to an empty house, and organize a funeral, and her life would move on without Rupert in it. He hadn’t even been hers for very long, in the grand scheme of things. Six months of marriage and three years of a relationship. She’d wanted so much more, and she couldn’t turn down the chance to have it just because she wasn’t completely sure of what she was doing.

“Yes,” she said simply, and headed towards the stairs.

The stairs had looked like less of a climb than they were turning out to be, and Jenny couldn’t hear any footsteps behind her. It felt pointless, and stupid, and she missed Rupert so much that her chest was starting to hurt. Or, no. She was just winded from the stairs. But everything was still very much on the not fun side of the spectrum.

It might have been better if Jenny didn’t feel so completely alone. Rupert was dead, and Anya was up in the sunlight, and the kids were all at home. She wanted to bring Rupert back for them, too; she knew how much they all loved him, Buffy in particular, and she knew how happy and proud of her they’d all be.

Something stuck with Jenny about that. Was that what she wanted? Did she want Rupert back, or did she want everyone to be smiling at her, Xander cracking some joke about how he always knew Ms. Calendar would bend heaven and hell to get Giles back, but he didn’t know she’d do it just by yelling at a butler guy, Willow hugging her tightly and telling her how amazing she was, Buffy giving her a simple, grateful smile? Was she that selfish?

And if Rupert was dead, then whatever had killed him had taken away the one person Jenny had ever trusted with her worries. He was the only person who could really make her feel comforted and loved, and she’d always done the same for him. She didn’t know if she’d be able to trust herself to love anyone again if she lost him. Very dramatic, yes, but also true.

Jenny could see the sunlight, and she could feel the hopelessness weighing her down. One look wouldn’t hurt. There was no one behind her, anyway, because Rupert wouldn’t want to come back with her, he’d want to stay at peace instead of being dragged back to life by his ultra-clingy wife. She turned on the stairs—

—no.

Rupert was looking at her. He didn’t look sad, or surprised, he just looked like he loved her.

“No,” said Jenny. Her voice broke. “No. No, I’m so sorry, I thought—”

“Don’t blame yourself,” Rupert said softly. “Please, love.”

And then he was gone, and Jenny was standing in sunlight next to broken glass, at the bottom of an empty pool.

She heard footsteps. Anya had come over, and was kneeling down at the edge of the pool, looking down at her sadly. “Oh, Jenny,” she said, and for the first time, she sounded as old as she was. “I’m so sorry.”

Jenny sat down on the bottom of the pool, shaking.

Orpheus died trying to get Eurydice back the second time, but Jenny wasn’t so foolish as to try and jump headfirst into an empty pool again. She’d been given her chance, and she failed. She had to live with that. The children couldn’t afford to lose both her and Rupert in the span of twenty-four hours.

Anya drove them home. Jenny held onto Rupert’s wedding ring and remembered the look on his face. She hadn’t failed him, she knew. There was some small comfort in that. He’d believed in her and loved her despite her faults and shortcomings—she would just have to try and live up to that love in his eyes.

She pressed her lips to the ring again and remembered placing it on Rupert’s finger, outside City Hall. They’d been walking down the street with the marriage license when he’d tugged at her hand and handed her the ring. She’d laughed and taken his hand, kissing the knuckles before improvising some wedding vows on the spot.

“I won’t,” she said quietly.

“You won’t what?” Anya glanced over at her from the driver’s seat.

“I won’t blame myself.” Jenny smiled a little sadly. “He wanted that for me.”

She gave him back his wedding ring at the funeral. She had her own to wear.

#fic #calendiles #jenny calendar #precious nineties techno bean #*singing* angst angst angst

[therainbowwillow]

https://therainbowwillow.tumblr.com/post/641354616733401088/therainbowwillow

Epilogue! 

Here it is, the last part of this fic. And here is a sappy note from the author: Thank you all so, so much for reading my first-ever fanfic I’ve posted here! As I said in the very first parts, the hardest part of writing (for me) is posting what I write! To publish your art (written or drawn or sung, etc) is to show a part of yourself to the world and it is intimidating. The support you readers have given me has encouraged me to finish (me? finishing something?) this fic and has inspired me to keep posting my writing on here! Thanks a million for joining me on this trainwreck of a fanfiction.

Premise/last time (my last synopsis? AH!): Orpheus’s song succeeds. Hermes’s prophecy is fulfilled when Orpheus discovers his new immortality, at the hand of Hades. Persephone is allowed to choose where she spends her time, in Hadestown or up above. Eurydice and Orpheus look forward to their future, a lot longer than they had expected. Achilles and Patroclus are given a second chance at life and guaranteed a spot in Elysium. Hyacinthus stays with Apollo. Hermes is unemployed and tired but at least his son is alive.

It hadn’t taken Orpheus and Eurydice more than a minute to decide they wanted to go home. The Olympians had murmured amongst themselves. Gods, they had said, who do not have any desire to remain on Olympus? Sure, it wasn’t unheard of to live away from the city. But to visit only for hours? That wasn’t common. 

Hermes had understood in an instant. They had come to plead for their lives and they’d left with much more than they’d bargained for. They longed for normalcy. They’d said their good-byes to Apollo and Hyacinthus, shining with his newfound immortality. The journey home had felt short, Hermes had been half-conscious for most of it. Persephone and Hestia helped him down the ramp, leaving Olympus behind him. 

The train ride had been silent. Orpheus and Eurydice had sat side by side, hand in hand, never looking away from his bedside.

The flowers in the meadow turned their heads to Orpheus, God of Song, as he passed, though no notes touched his lips. Persephone helped Hermes inside and they’d slept. 

When he’d finally woken, Hermes found Orpheus and Eurydice outside his window, laying together in the meadow. They sat beneath a tree and Orpheus strummed his lyre, humming the notes of a new song, flowers blooming around him, warm raindrops against his cheeks. Hermes watched them from his bed, to weary to stand.

The sun, perhaps curious at the sound of Orpheus’s music burned off the clouds and a rainbow stretched across the sky. Eurydice was the first to notice. It was a novel sight after years without a spring. She pointed it out to Orpheus, who watched it, wide-eyed, and then switched to singing about the colors above him. 

...

Today, almost exactly a year after their original return, Orpheus and Eurydice would be married, in the light of spring. Orpheus stands beside his wife, sipping a glass of nectar. Eurydice frantically adjusts her veil. Orpheus sets down his drink and takes her hands in his. “Hey. You look great, love. What’s wrong?” he asks her.

“It’s just... we never could’ve done this before...” she sighs. “We could never have paid for all this. And now...”

“We won’t lose it this time,” he promises.

“I know. It’s hard to forget that we did once.”

He nods in understanding. “Let’s enjoy it while we can, lover. Sure, winter will be cold, summer will be hot, but it’s spring now!” He places his hands on her waist and sways back and forth. Eurydice smiles. She grabs his hands and spins him under her arms. 

“It’s spring,” she agrees. 

The guest list looks exactly as they’d agreed it would on the first train ride home. Hermes received the first invitation, as he still lived with the soon-to-be newlyweds. Persephone, residing nearby with her mother and son, received the second. Hyacinthus and Apollo were in attendance, and Achilles and Patroclus. Hera had blessed the wedding and Aphrodite had agreed wholeheartedly. In some stroke of madness or courage, Orpheus had sent a letter to Hades, inviting him to stop by. He hadn’t received a reply. 

Written inside the cards was indeed Eurydice’s poem, to which she had objected after the letters had been sent. Still, she’d slept with a copy of the invitation under her pillow for months.

The set-up had been easy enough. A few notes of coaxing and, as promised, the trees had laid their wedding tables. Iris, Goddess of the Rainbow, had given them a wedding arch of pure light. Persephone and Demeter had provided a feast and Hermes had delivered most of their invitations. 

Apollo walks Orpheus down the isle. He trembles with anxiety. Hermes hands Eurydice off to him and he clutches her hand, beneath their arch of light. “I’m gonna forget what I’m supposed to say,” he whispers.

She squeezes his hand. “Orpheus, you aren’t gonna forget.” He nods, hoping she’s right. 

And she is, of course. “I can’t promise you fair sky above,” he vows, “Can’t promise you kind road below. But I’ll walk beside you, love. Any way the wind blows. Walk beside me.”

“Any way the wind blows,” she swears. “I will.”

Their kiss is long and filled with love. Eurydice’s fingertips brush against the thin scar across her lover’s palm. The tiny gash that had decided their forever. 

The rest of the night is marked by music. Apollo is supposed to be the one performing, but Orpheus can’t help himself. Eurydice joins in, singing beside him, and soon the crowd is cheering for the newlyweds’ song. If Apollo is jealous, he doesn’t show it. 

At Orpheus’s allowance, he leaves his position on stage and spins out a beautiful dance with Hyacinthus. Apollo notices his lover has grown his hair out. He has it tied back in a wreath of purple hyacinths, revealing the gash over his eye, the mark of his death he’d always kept so desperately hidden. Apollo brushes his finger over the scar. Hyacinthus looks away. “Hey, I like it,” Apollo says.

“I wasn’t sure about it. I... I used to wear my hair like this. You know... before? I thought maybe-”

“I love it.” Apollo silences him with a kiss. 

The wedding celebrations carry on long into the night. Hermes looks on as Eurydice and Orpheus share their final dance of the day. Somehow, by some miracle, their tale had turned out this time. 

“Hermes,” Orpheus takes a seat beside him, as Eurydice prepares a snack inside. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

Hermes pulls his son into his arms. “I wish I could’ve done more,” he says. He opens Orpheus’s palm, examining his scar. “I wish it every day.”

Orpheus shakes his head. “You couldn’t have done more. I couldn’t have asked for a better father. You saved my life. Endured Hades’s wrath in my place.”

“And you saved me in turn. I couldn’t have asked for a better son.” 

“I wish... you hadn’t gone through so much for me,” Orpheus whispers

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, Orpheus,” he says, honestly. They sit in silence for a moment.

“Do you still feel it?” Orpheus asks, suddenly.

Hermes narrows his eyes. “What?”

“His wrath.”

“Do you?” Hermes inquires.

“I never felt it the way you did. It would always... end. A few seconds of agony and it would all be over,” he says.

“That’s not an answer.”

He hesitates a moment. “I do,” Orpheus admits. “Aches and pains, bad dreams, however it manifests, I can always tell.”

Hermes nods his sympathy. “I understand.”

“You were worse. You... you were asleep for days, weakened for weeks. And when you woke... you looked older, so tired. I was afraid for you,” Orpheus tells him.

“Finding you in that cell, Orpheus... that’s how I felt. I wish I could take all of that pain away from you,” Hermes says.

“I’ll manage,” Orpheus promises. “However long it takes.”

“I know you will.”

Eurydice returns with a plate of fruit and glasses of nectar. She hands one to her husband and the other to her father-in-law. “Happy zero-th anniversary, Orpheus!”

He blushes a deep gold. “We’re married!” He remembers. “It still hasn’t sunk in yet!”

Eurydice looks up at the full moon overhead. The scent of cherry blossom is on the air. She sits beside Orpheus and rests her head on his shoulder. “I’m glad we’re here,” she tells him, softly.

“I am too.”

————————————————————-

Achilles and Patroclus established their residence in the countryside. In thanks for their protection of her daughter, Demeter provided bountiful harvests, year after year. They sat beneath their fig orchard and watched the stars, rejecting offers of glory in trade for the peace and quiet they longed for.

Decades passed and like all good things, their quiet lives came to an end. Achilles was the first to return to Hadestown. He fell ill in late winter. Patroclus never once left his side, providing food and drink and finally strong medicine until his lover breathed his final breath.

Patroclus watched the pyre go up in flames. He collected the ashes in a golden urn, half filled. His nights were cold and lonely and the harvest felt tedious. He watched the stars alone each night, just as he had promised he would. Finally, his time came.

...

He wakes, feeling unrefreshed. He pulls the cover back over himself and closes his eyes again. “Patroclus,” voice from behind him calls. A dream, he knows. He’d had plenty before. He shuts his eyes tighter.

“Patroclus,” Achilles says again. “Mind looking at me? It’s been a while. I missed you.”

Patroclus rolls over. His lover stands before him, young and healthy in a small bedroom. “Achilles?” he mutters. “This isn’t real.”

He prepares to turn away. Achilles takes his hand. His eyes widen at the touch. “No, Patroclus. You’re here!”

“Where ‘here’? Achilles, what is this?” he asks.

“Welcome to Elysium!” Achilles exclaims, taking a seat beside him. “Hades kept his promise.”

Patroclus blinks. “I’m... dead?”

Achilles nods. “Yes. Now we get to stay here. For real this time. I made Hades swear it, on the River Styx.” He brushes the hair out of Patroclus’s eyes. “If you’d like, I can show you around, but I’d rather you rest first. Dying is tiring work.”

Patroclus sits upright. “Achilles... I missed you.”

“I missed you too. I was afraid when Persephone brought you in that something was wrong. She told me that it was common, for shades who died in their sleep to stay asleep for days, even weeks,” he explains. “It wasn’t particularly comforting. I’m glad you’re awake.”

“I didn’t have coins to cross the Styx!” Patroclus realizes.

“I paid your fare.”

“What? How? You weren’t on the banks with me.”

Achilles shrugs. “Persephone told me she’d seen you so I worked on the factory assembly lines for a few days until I could afford to bring you over. I bet she would’ve done it anyway if I hadn’t scrounged together the change.”

“Thank you,” he says, gratefully.

“It wasn’t too bad. I hadn’t worked for years. Kind of refreshing, honestly.”

“Years?” Patroclus asks, alarmed.

“No one in Elysium works all that often. In the rest of Hadestown, most shades work part-time, with two weeks’ vacation to Elysium annually, plus weekends,” Achilles says. “And... oh, I shouldn’t tell you until you’re ready to see for yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Patroclus insists. “Please tell me.”

“The sky. It’s not the overworld, but it has its own beauty. It’s quite impressive, and it isn’t even finished. I guess if you’d like we could-”

“Yes!” Patroclus exclaims. “I watched the stars. Every night. It wasn’t the same without you, my love.”

Achilles helps him to his feet and guides him through the house. Through the door of their cozy bedroom, down a short hallway, they step down a flight of stairs and out the front door. It opens to a landscape of rolling hills under otherworldly green lights. The stars are swirls in the sky, illuminated in strange colors. “Stars?” he whispers in awe.

“Hades stopped trying to recreate the overworld. He made it... something else. It worked, clearly. Come, sit.” He shows Patroclus to a well-used patch of grass beneath a fruit tree and lowers his lover to the ground.

Patroclus twirls a blade of grass between his fingers. “This is real,” he observes.

“Orpheus’s song does reach down here. And Persephone keeps everything growing, especially this time of year, springtime in the underground. When she’s with Hades, it’s like summer. Underworld summer. Patroclus, I know it’s not what you’re used to, but it really is-”

“It’s incredible.” Patroclus’s lips touch Achilles’s and neither man pulls away, not for an eternity.

----(Decades prior to the deaths of Achilles and Patroclus)----

It had taken Persephone over two years to make her decision. She’d felt bad to keep her husband waiting all this time, but living up on top was bliss after all those long winters. It was summer of the third year when she finally returned.

...

Hermes arrives at her new residence, this one closer to Hadestown, looking awful. For a moment she fears the worst. That her husband had torn up the world all over again. But what he tells her is more frightening.

“Persephone, this summer’s been too long,” he announces. “Orpheus is powerful, but not this good. He’s been singing day and night to keep the weather in check. Singing for months There’s a spring and a fall and a winter, but it won’t last long. Next year, I’m afraid the crops will burn or-”

Horror fills her. “Is he alright?” She asks. “I knew it was getting hotter, but I never thought...”

Hermes sighs. “I’ve seen worse. But it’s wearing on him. He’s too tired to get out of bed these days. Eurydice’s there to help, of course, but he can’t do this forever, Seph. Not even a god can remain eternally awake.”

“I’ll go,” she agrees.

He shakes his head. “That’s not what I’m asking. Your mother can control the seasons. With her help-”

“No, I’m leaving. I’ve made my choice. Tell your poor boy I’ll come by one last time. Let him stop singing.”

Hermes accepts this. They walk up the railroad track in silence.

He gently opens the door of his and Orpheus’s residence. He hears Eurydice, giving words of encouragement.

“It’s been months,” Orpheus says, his voice raspy with strain. “I dunno how long I can stay up. Even gods sleep.”

“I know, lover. But you’ve done so well. Don’t give up now.”

“I won’t,” he promises. “Just... a few more weeks, right? No,” he corrects himself, “Months. It’ll be fall soon. Then winter, then spring.”

“Spring is break time.”

“I know. It’s only... it’s two seasons away.”

Hermes hears her miserable sigh. “You’ve been brave, Orpheus, to keep fighting.”

“I love you,” he says.

“I know.”

He gives a little yelp of pain.

“Sorry. I should’ve changed these hours ago.”

Hermes opens the door. Orpheus looks up from his bloodied fingers. He smiles. “Hey Hermes! I’m sorry, I have nothing for us to eat. The song stopped producing a few days ago and I’m struggling with the lyre now that my fingers... well... It’ll be harvest soon. It won’t be ambrosia, but it’ll have to do.”

“No.” Persephone sits beside him. “It won’t have to do. We can fix this. I’m going back to Hadestown. I won’t be long. Spring always returns.”

“You don’t have to do this!” Orpheus exclaims, “My song will be enough until it’s spring again. Don’t go back. Please.”

“I miss him, Orpheus. I do. I’m going... home.” It feels strange to call Hadestown ‘home’. It was most often known to Persephone as ‘hell on earth.’

“Only if this is what you want, Persephone,” he says.

“I do. Please get some rest. Starting now.”

He smiles wearily as he leans back against his pillows. “Thank you.”

“I love you, kiddo. I’ll see you when you bring back the springtime next year,” she promises.

He gives a little nod and he’s asleep, almost the second his head hits the pillow.

Hermes helps Persephone onto the train. Charon drives now, rather than himself. “Take care of Orpheus for me, will you? And give this to Dionysus.” She hands him a envelope. “He can come visit whenever he likes.”

“I will. If you need anything, just send a message.”

“See ya next spring!” She waves as the train pulls out of the station.

...

She remembers Orpheus, almost lifeless, collapsed in a booth just like the one she sits in now. Only three years. It feels like a century. How much he’s been through, she thinks. How much he’s changed. He isn’t the young man who’d collapsed at her feet in Hades’s throne room all those years ago. She has no doubt in her mind that he would’ve sung ‘til spring if she hadn’t gone.

The routine of the train ride is something of a comfort. She watches the scenery fly by outside her window. Green fields, nearly ripe for harvest. All thanks to Orpheus.

The train grinds to a halt. She steps into Hadestown, beyond the wall for the first time in so long. Bluish lights illuminate the stone walls of the city from above. The shadows cast by the buildings aren’t so harsh as they had once been. She raises an eyebrow.

She follows the streets down into the heart of Hadestown, hell on Earth. A young couple passes her, hand in hand.

“Hey, miss?” A woman calls. She turns. “I haven’t seen you around. Are you new here?” the girl asks.

“I- no. Not really.” Persephone looks up at the city skyline. Her husband’a tower is no where in sight. “Where’s the tower?”

“The tower?” The woman looks confused for a second. “Oh yeah! I’ve heard the stories! They took it down during the revolution. You want a glass of wine, miss? If not, the bar’s always open if-”

“Hush,” Persephone cuts her off. “If we’re discovered, there won’t be anywhere left.”

The woman’s brow furrows. “Discovered by who? Mister Hades frequents our establishment.”

“We can’t be talking about the same man,” she says, astounded.

“You sure you don’t want a drink? I’m new here, so maybe someone will know more than me.”

Persephone nods, numbly. The woman leads her down the same street she’d walked a hundred times. Instead of a thin, secluded allyway, the entrance to her old bar is well-lit and wide open. It’s exterior is painted with a mural of carnations. She steps inside and is recognized almost instantly.

“Lady Persephone!” The bartender calls. “We’ve missed you down here!”

“Ampelos,” she recognizes the young man, a lover of her son, Dionysus, and the best bartender around. “It’s been a while.”

“That it has! We didn’t think you’d come back!”

“Yet here I am. Where’s the tower, my friend? Or the throne hall, I suppose.” She inquires. “I should find my husband.”

“I’m sure Hades will stop by soon enough. Dionysus’s spring wine.” He hands her a glass. “Hades kept the recipe.”

“There’s no vineyards down below,” she corrects him. “How much are you smuggling?”

“None.” He shrugs. “Orpheus’s song changed a lot.”

“Did my husband put you up to this?”

“No,” he answers. “It’s been different since the revolution. We’re still rebuilding, so there’s plenty to do, but having our memories back is nice. So are the shorter shifts. Five day weeks, nine-to-four. The weekends, we do as we like and our two weeks’ annual vacation time can be spent whenever we please. Pay isn’t half bad, though we’re campaigning for more currently, hence the flower. It’s the symbol of our revolution.”

She blinks in disbelief. “Funny.”

“No, I’m not joking,” he protests. “Things have changed.”

Persephone shakes her head. “Not Hades. Hades is unmovable. He gave us a chance because that song made him soft. Nothing more.”

“You’re wrong. He didn’t come this far alone, true. It took a lot of willpower and good minds to convince him to let go of his iron grip on Hadestown, but we did it,” he explains.

The bell chimes at the door. Persephone freezes in fear at the sight of her husband. She’d dreamt it a hundred times, that he’d take away her last safe haven. “Hades,” she pleads.

He stares at her. “Persephone?” He waits for someone to laugh, tell him it had all been a joke. No one does. He moves closer. He doesn’t dare to touch her. He sees her eyes well with tears. “A glass of wine, Ampelos,” he commands.

Her lips part. “You know him?”

Ampelos shrugs. “Like I said. He’s a regular.”

“Hades...”

He cracks a smile. “I suppose I do drink more than I once did. I hoped you wouldn’t judge, Seph- sorry, Persephone,” he corrects himself.

She takes his hands. “Hades... you let us go. You let them go. It’s true?”

He nods. “I promised you change.”

“I didn’t think...”

“I don’t blame you. Persephone... why did you return?”

“The weather became hotter and hotter the longer I stayed. I couldn’t let the world die for me,” she says. “And Hades? I... I missed you.

“You made your choice?” His voice hasn’t lost its old commanding tone.

She closes her eyes and exhales. “I have. I made a promise too. I told them up on the surface I’d be back by spring.”

“I told you I wouldn’t keep you here,” he says, almost irritated. “But I understand your doubts.” Hades sips his wine.

“I’ll stay,” she promises. 

“For me or for them?”

“I don’t know yet,” she admits.

He nods. “Will you walk with me?”

Persephone takes his hand and leaves the bar behind her. The streets are cleaner, the air is easier on her lungs. The city is lit by beams of blue light, dazzling the buildings in colorful rays. Carnations are painted on some of the walls, leftover from the riots. “I stopped trying to make it look like it does up above,” Hades informs her. 

“I noticed.”

“Do you like it?” He stops to ask her.

“Yes.”

“The shades seem to prefer it too,” he adds.

“They’re happy, Hades,” she tells him.

“I feared they only kept up the ruse around me to save their skins.”

“No. It’s genuine. They smile. They laugh. I never thought I’d see the day,” she remarks.

They continue walking, past the crumbled remains of factories and newly opened restaurants. “Where are we going, Hades?” Persephone finally asks.

He shrugs. “Where do you want to go?”

She’s surprised at her own request. “Home,” she says. 

“It’s gone,” he responds, bluntly. “The tower fell before I returned.”

“Then take me to wherever you’re staying.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?” she asks.

“I have no home. I held off. You were never happy in the tower. I wanted you to choose where we should reside.”

“I don’t understand,” Persephone says. “You don’t have a home on the surface. You live here year round. Why should my six months matter more than your twelve?” 

“You’re my wife.”

“And I’m telling you to pick a place. So do it.”

He guides her down the street in silence, away from the center of town. She recognizes the route he’s taking, remembers the last time she’d come this way. It had been no leisurely stroll then. She instinctively reaches for her pocket, retracting her hand when she remembers she’d left her flask on the surface. 

The tightly packed streets open to an empty field, a single dilapidated building at the far edge. Persephone carefully steps over the glass ruins of her now-fallen greenhouses. She rests her hand upon the door of the last building that stands. She exhales and pushes it open. 

The scent of flowers strikes her. Her jaw drops. The garden blooms before her, as if she’s on the surface. As if the vines cannot tell that the sun is a million miles out of reach. 

“Hades...” she whispers, rapt.

“It will improve in your care,” he says. 

“You did this?”

“I did my best,” he tells her, modestly. “Orpheus’s song does reach us.” He pinches a dead leaf between his fingers. “But it’s been quiet lately.”

She takes a seat on a bench in the center of the garden and pats the spot beside her. Hades joins her. “Last time I was here, I used these vines to strangle the man you sent to attack me,” she reminds him. “After he shot Orpheus, that is. I was too late. As always,” she scoffs. Hades says nothing. “No, you look at me, husband.” He turns towards her. “You’re trying. But it ain’t easy to forgive.”

He nods in quiet understanding. “What happened to him once I left?”

She shrugs. “Hermes could tell you more than I could. I spent time with the three of them when things got rough, just after we got home from Olympus. It took Orpheus a long time to get back on his feet, even with the help of your ambrosia.” 

She sighs, remembering those long, long weeks. “He’d sleep all day and wake up screaming. Some nights, he wouldn’t speak to us; he wouldn’t tell us what was wrong. He’d just cry and cry until he lost his voice or I gave him something to knock him out. It was unbearable. But we bore it, Eurydice and I, while Hermes slept. Eventually he improved, but even now, some days are harder than others.” 

“Whatever you did to him, it never went away,” she accuses him. “The same for Hermes. You couldn’t tell by looking at them, not anymore. But sometimes... sometimes I know it wears on them.”

Hades stares at the vines at his feet. “I would take it all back if I could,” he says, quietly.

“I know you would. I wish I could relieve their burdens, more than you know.”

“You have burdens of your own,” he reminds her. “The weight of their strife is mine to carry.”

She wonders if he wants her to refute him. “Yes, it is,” she simply agrees. “No amount of apologies, no amount of reform will ever take away that pain.” She stands and turns her back on him. 

He reaches for her hand. She lets him take it. “I know. I’m not asking you to forgive. I know you cannot forget. But we have another chance, Persephone.”

“I don’t know what I want, Hades.” 

“I’ll wait for you,” he promises.

#hadestown #hadestown fanfic #hadestown au #like i said its hardly an au lol #oh well #at least my warm up is done #its eighteen parts long #end me #therainbowwrites