Eumenes was the last Kogaiononian city on the way to the temple. I now knew
that Orpheus never killed anyone inside a town he was visiting, opting
instead to lure girls into leaving with him. We were greeted by a miserable
weather and I decided I did not feel like following the bard around the
city. Instead I stayed in for days and often entertained the daughter of my
host with the stories of the Trojan War. The daughter, Erichtea, was a
young thing, barely fifteen years of age and of a rather giggly nature. In
the absence of her adoring parents, she clung to me in the most annoying
way, repeatedly questioning me about my travels and all the marvelous (so
she thought) sights I had witnessed. She would try to convince me to go
follow Orpheus around with her and would always be disappointed upon my
refusal to leave the warm house and follow the man. Irked as I was by her
friendship and the close-knit atmosphere in the estate, I was disappointed
when I heard Orpheus had announced (with great pomp, as usual) his imminent
departure.
Why he chose Erichtea this time I was not sure. Maybe it was intended to show me that he was as tired of the stalking as I was. Naturally, he knew where I was staying and who my hosts were. And the stupid girl bought his entire routine. I watched her follow him and watched him pretend to be surprised when she tapped his shoulder. He was never surprised. I watched him charm her misgivings away and lead her off the road when the stars woke up at dusk. I watched the girl whose parents had given me shelter and food, the girl who had laughed and gasped at my words bleed away in the moonlight like many before her and lost myself in self-contempt. In a strange way, I told myself, I had also been enchanted by the insane little man's songs. No. That was too ready an excuse. In fact, I had been fascinated with his quest to the point of criminal apathy. We were grasping at the same thing, Orpheus and I. We both wanted immortality, physical for him, lyrical for me.
He sat on a nearby boulder and picked his lyre just as I walked out of the thicket, certain he could see the embers burning through the skin of my ears.
"Hello, dear," I said with irony, the treble of my voice betraying the fear and anger my haughty, stilted stride intended to conceal.
A feral smile blossomed white on his shadowed face and he sang out.
"Vicious Aphrodite bit into me with venomous teeth, I feel the poison blistering my veins, I could not love Eurydice and yet I burn with longing..."
As I said, trite.
Almost imperceptibly, without breaking the song, he glanced at his knife lying two paces from the boulder on which he sat. My stomach tightened and I could swear I vomited a burst of energy, which hissed through the snow- brushed leaves and evaporated, leaving the night darker than before.
"She," I waived my hand at something I hoped was Erichtea's direction and kicked the knife, an important part of his ritual, far from the camp, "will not arise a Goddess, none of them will. She will stiffen, then soften, then rot. "
I had hoped that the images of decay would damage the marble perfection of his idealized victims and indulge him in conversation, but he sang on of the cruelty of love and of his anguish.
"It may be that this is not their failing," I popped an eyebrow skywards in mock-consideration. "The girls', I mean. It may be that you were not fated to become a god, Orpheus."
"I rather think we both were," he said, "Fated. You and I. Both resentful of our surroundings and insanely in love with ourselves, unable to cope with our fear of death, for death is the end of the me, despite what they say about the land of the dead, and we just cannot deal with that. In fact, no hero has ever been able to. That is the reason for all their heroics. "
"In honest, I am surprised at your self-awareness." I said.
"Insight often comes when one is gazing at death. All those girls. It started in your town, I hope you realize. I was struck by the dichotomy between the dejected atmosphere and hard life of Erikstes and all the jubilant people inhabiting the place. Oh, how quickly their delusions of happiness dissipated once a foreign element made its way into their world and introduced new emotions and aspirations. I'd wager they snapped back to happy once I left?"
I nodded.
"See? Happiness over awareness. I cannot live like that, neither can you, I assume. Otherwise you would not have followed me."
"I followed you in need of a story."
"Well, I hope you liked it. And now, I am going to have to kill you."
And he lunged at my throat barehanded. I tried to fend him off but he was surprisingly strong for such a scrawny thing. His hands squeezing my throat, I was still fighting him when I lost consciousness.
I came to only to hear Orpheus scrambling for his knife in the thick vegetation about. I got up, grabbing a heavy, fire-blackened branch, and swung it at his head. He fell, dead or unconscious, I did not care. I dug out a grave for Erichtea, lugged the body in, and covered it. Then I left.
Apparently, he survived. And to others I was a presumably a Goddess come back from the land of the dead. However, because of some transgression of his, I had been conveniently sent back to the shadows where I waited for Orpheus' ascension to Mount Olympus to join him. People will believe anything. From what I could understand, convinced himself or having convinced others that he had achieved his immortality, he did not kill anyone else, devoting himself (quite successfully) to the pursuit of poetic renown. I went back home to take care of my aged parents and continued telling my stories. Orpheus' was the only story I would not tell, at least not until I felt the breath of Thanatos, the God of Death on my collarbone. Who would believe me anyway? There was no magic, no gods, no true love in it. Just two arrogant youths and a lot of death.
Why he chose Erichtea this time I was not sure. Maybe it was intended to show me that he was as tired of the stalking as I was. Naturally, he knew where I was staying and who my hosts were. And the stupid girl bought his entire routine. I watched her follow him and watched him pretend to be surprised when she tapped his shoulder. He was never surprised. I watched him charm her misgivings away and lead her off the road when the stars woke up at dusk. I watched the girl whose parents had given me shelter and food, the girl who had laughed and gasped at my words bleed away in the moonlight like many before her and lost myself in self-contempt. In a strange way, I told myself, I had also been enchanted by the insane little man's songs. No. That was too ready an excuse. In fact, I had been fascinated with his quest to the point of criminal apathy. We were grasping at the same thing, Orpheus and I. We both wanted immortality, physical for him, lyrical for me.
He sat on a nearby boulder and picked his lyre just as I walked out of the thicket, certain he could see the embers burning through the skin of my ears.
"Hello, dear," I said with irony, the treble of my voice betraying the fear and anger my haughty, stilted stride intended to conceal.
A feral smile blossomed white on his shadowed face and he sang out.
"Vicious Aphrodite bit into me with venomous teeth, I feel the poison blistering my veins, I could not love Eurydice and yet I burn with longing..."
As I said, trite.
Almost imperceptibly, without breaking the song, he glanced at his knife lying two paces from the boulder on which he sat. My stomach tightened and I could swear I vomited a burst of energy, which hissed through the snow- brushed leaves and evaporated, leaving the night darker than before.
"She," I waived my hand at something I hoped was Erichtea's direction and kicked the knife, an important part of his ritual, far from the camp, "will not arise a Goddess, none of them will. She will stiffen, then soften, then rot. "
I had hoped that the images of decay would damage the marble perfection of his idealized victims and indulge him in conversation, but he sang on of the cruelty of love and of his anguish.
"It may be that this is not their failing," I popped an eyebrow skywards in mock-consideration. "The girls', I mean. It may be that you were not fated to become a god, Orpheus."
"I rather think we both were," he said, "Fated. You and I. Both resentful of our surroundings and insanely in love with ourselves, unable to cope with our fear of death, for death is the end of the me, despite what they say about the land of the dead, and we just cannot deal with that. In fact, no hero has ever been able to. That is the reason for all their heroics. "
"In honest, I am surprised at your self-awareness." I said.
"Insight often comes when one is gazing at death. All those girls. It started in your town, I hope you realize. I was struck by the dichotomy between the dejected atmosphere and hard life of Erikstes and all the jubilant people inhabiting the place. Oh, how quickly their delusions of happiness dissipated once a foreign element made its way into their world and introduced new emotions and aspirations. I'd wager they snapped back to happy once I left?"
I nodded.
"See? Happiness over awareness. I cannot live like that, neither can you, I assume. Otherwise you would not have followed me."
"I followed you in need of a story."
"Well, I hope you liked it. And now, I am going to have to kill you."
And he lunged at my throat barehanded. I tried to fend him off but he was surprisingly strong for such a scrawny thing. His hands squeezing my throat, I was still fighting him when I lost consciousness.
I came to only to hear Orpheus scrambling for his knife in the thick vegetation about. I got up, grabbing a heavy, fire-blackened branch, and swung it at his head. He fell, dead or unconscious, I did not care. I dug out a grave for Erichtea, lugged the body in, and covered it. Then I left.
Apparently, he survived. And to others I was a presumably a Goddess come back from the land of the dead. However, because of some transgression of his, I had been conveniently sent back to the shadows where I waited for Orpheus' ascension to Mount Olympus to join him. People will believe anything. From what I could understand, convinced himself or having convinced others that he had achieved his immortality, he did not kill anyone else, devoting himself (quite successfully) to the pursuit of poetic renown. I went back home to take care of my aged parents and continued telling my stories. Orpheus' was the only story I would not tell, at least not until I felt the breath of Thanatos, the God of Death on my collarbone. Who would believe me anyway? There was no magic, no gods, no true love in it. Just two arrogant youths and a lot of death.