Immortal
He tries to write a song. How else can she be immortal?
A thin voice answers: Sheâs already dead.
 ***
In which Persephone learns of the mourning of mortals, and Orpheus tries to sing again. (Hadestown fanfic, 1026 words.)
When he reaches the surface, he can barely move. He sits there a long time, in the withering darkness. The earth is still around him.
The train doesnât come for a long time. Hades calls it a mark of respect.
The winter lasts a long time. An eternity, it seems. And the grass grows long around him, and the sprouts shoot between his ankles, and the ivy climbs up his arms as he stays there, unmoving â
Rumour says grief turned him to stone.
 Do the gods take pity? Do the gods even care?
 Hermes finds him upon the ground.
âGet up,â he says, to a boy more stone than man.
The boy doesnât reply.
âGet up,â he says again. âYou still have a voice.â
For the first time in forever, there is a movement. To one side, another. A shake of the head.
âHey,â he says. He crouches down. Heâs spent some time among men, the trickster god; he knows how they work. âDonât worry. Itâs almost spring.â
 A lady steps off a train. The daisies sprout up beneath her feet.
âWhere the fuck is he,â she asks the messenger god.
With some trepidation, Hermes motions towards the stick-thin woods.
As soon as she has a drink in her hand and her suitcase in anotherâs she is sprinting through the woods, blossom on the breeze behind her, new light filtering through new leaves as her fingers brush the bark. The forest resounds with his name.
By the time she reaches the grove where he lay, heâs already on his feet.
âMy Lady,â he murmurs, shaking off the tendrils.
She smiles, and points with a miraculously-full glass.
âGet to work,â she says to her poet.
 He tries to write a song. How else can she be immortal?
A thin voice answers: Sheâs already dead.
He tries to banish the thoughts like so many summer clouds. But they stay thick and fast, and the words canât pass through. His words are light, light and airy â but while sunshine and breezes worked to illuminate the world below, they werenât enough to save her. Up here, weightlessness is not enough.
Cross-legged, he slumps over his lyre, exhausted. From a distance, the gods watch.
âHeâs mourning,â says Hermes. âLet him mourn.â
Persephone takes a drag of her cigarette, blows out fumes like an iridescent dragon. âHeâs an artist,â she says. âSorrow makes singing.â
âHeâs a man. Do you forget that youâre immortal?â
She looks at the man who dared to defy the gods themselves, to sing to a wall and beg to let him in, to sing to a king and beg to let her go. She watches him sitting in the copse where she found him, now raising his head to the heavens, eyes closed, lips whispering.
âHeâs got a little faith,â Persephone murmurs.
Itâs almost imperceptible, as a bud unfolding. One trickle, then another, from beneath closed lids. Like snow melting. The first sign of spring.
Then from a trembling mouth, a cry bursts out â not a soft and gentle hymn, a tribute to the gods â a weeping wail, a call of despair. He clutches his lyre and he screams her name â Eurydice, Eurydice, his lost love, his heart. His hair mixes with grass, his hands with the dirt, drawing handfuls of blades in his palms in his sorrow.
âThen we better hope they answer him,â the trickster-god mutters. But the goddess is already gone, a trail of blossoms where she stood, a footprint of daisies across the barren field.
 âHey, lover-boy. You want her to be remembered?â
Not even for his Lady will Orpheus answer. He shakes his head. âItâs gone,â he says.
She shields her eyes from the summer glare. âNothingâs gone,â she starts. âYou still have your art ââ
But he stares up, accusing, challenging the goddess. His eyes pierce her heart, and a part of her shudders. âItâs gone,â he speaks, slowly, clearly. âAnd sheâs gone, too. Donât you see? Canât you get it? Canât one of you have pity ââ
âYouâre still an artist, kid. Youâve got your voice.â
âI lost my muse.â His head falls to his hands and he speaks: slowly, carefully, deliberately. And the goddess listens. âShe was there, she was behind me, and I believed her, then I didnât, and I turned around, and she was gone, and now sheâs gone forever. I canât bring her back. I canât recall her.â
And she finally understands what Hermes meant, the god who walks among mortals â sorrow does things to them. To the mortals, at least.
Even the artists.
She wavers a moment, there before sorrow. Then slowly, gently, she kneels down beside him, there in the dust.
âIâm sorry, Orpheus. I really am.â
Slowly, gently, he lifts his head. His cheeks are wet, his eyes are bright. He blinks, slowly, in the presence of majesty.
She extends a hand. âTake your time. Let it pass. The words will come.â
Or so they say.
 The leaves glow ember as he sings his song. The last note trails on forever.
âWhat do you think?â He asks the queen, the Queen of the Underworld.
At their feet, the rocks glisten. Drop falls upon drop upon drop. She shields her eyes from the boy before her.
âItâs fine,â she whispers. âItâs good.â
âItâs good?â He asks. âWill she hear it?â
A laugh rings high and loud round the mouth of a tunnel.
âIâll make sure she hears it, alright.â
 The Queen approaches Hades. âOrpheus,â she says.
âWho?â
âOrpheus. The boy. Heâs penned a new song.â
A snarl on his mouth. âI donât want to hear it.â
The Queen smiles, a sliver of spring. âYouâll hear it, willing or no.â
The King sighs, a lament of an icy winter.
âItâs not about you this time,â she says. âDonât fear for your reputation.â
âWhoâs it for?â
âFor her.â
 From the gleam of the surface, eyes closed, voice pure, he sings surrounded by crackling snow. He sings his song and thinks of her.
 She hears his song, from the depths of Hades. She hears his song and thinks of him.
She hears his song and thinks of flowers.
