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Hades, up in his office, is alone with a drink.
It’s not quite a disaster out there. Not yet. Just a disturbance rumbling. But, that’s only how it starts. One boy, one lyre, one song. One seed, threatening to dig down and take root.
Only for the love of a girl, Persephone claims. All this for one girl. Well, one girl is easy enough to take care of.
He stands, downs the last of his drink, and ventures out onto the balcony. The thrum of souls below him is still out of step. No matter - one blast of a whistle he has them scurrying to their stations, and when he steps down onto the factory floor it’s into a familiar dance of machinery. It’s no grand task to find the girl. She hasn’t been down here so long, not long enough to fade into the rhythm. She sticks out in Hades’ mind like a nail that needs hammering in. He finds her on the assembly line, head down. Not low enough for his liking.
“Songbird.”
He watches her stiffen, her skin prickling despite the heat of the town.
“Yes, sir?”
“Come.”
Hades feels her slightest tremble as she peels away from her station. Her eyes are wide and fixed. Frightened. Good. As they make their way back down the line the king’s focus is no longer on any single worker. He’s feeling for rhythm. For obedience. Who hasn’t listened to the boy? Which of his children remain loyal?
“You.”
The shade he’s chosen is tall and broad, and turns towards him with blank, unquestioning eyes. There’s no question, no command needed. He falls in step behind Hades and the girl, and the three of them march single-file to his office. Hermes, as he often is, is loitering not too far from the balcony steps. The messenger stands up a little straighter when he sees them, watching, but he doesn’t move to intervene. The girl’s eye lingers on him as she passes. She doesn’t seem to notice the fates circling. If she does, it’s nothing new.
Back in the office the two workers stand side by side, the man perfectly patient, the girl watching Hades’ every move. He sets the drink down after a sip, rounding the desk to put a hand to the trembling girl’s cheek. She really is a pretty little songbird, though now Hades sees a certain poison in her beauty. Still, he appreciates his last look at her unmarred. And then he turns to the man, and presents him with a leather strap. He sees the confusion in the girl’s eyes, the fear. Still, no words are spoken, Hades gestures to a spot beside the desk, where he’ll see them better. He sits as they move, and he lets the moment hang there, takes in the fear in the girl’s eyes. She still doesn’t know this rhythm. Still needs her hand held.
“Songbird.”
“Sir?”
“Kneel.”
It’s clear she’s sure, now, exactly what’s happening, but she knows better than to defy her god and stay on her feet. On her knees, she raises a shaking hand to her shoulder, a question she doesn’t dare ask. With a nod from Hades, she slips off the overall straps. Hades raises the glass to his lips again.
“Begin.”
From the first lash the girl falls forward, catching herself on her arms. Eyes blown wide, fingers clawed against the floorboards. The man with the strap keeps perfect time. Machinery grinds, hammers ring, leather strikes the girl’s back. All part of the symphony. Hades kicks his feet up against the desk. Pickaxes swing. The girl bites her lip hard. Furnaces roar. Her eyes swim with tears. The line rolls on. She finally lets out a sound. Orpheus’ girl whimpers softly, like the dying animal she was when Hades found her. The god nurses his drink, and watches. Some stubborn pride she still has in her is making her hold her tongue. He’s satisfied, for now, to watch that resolve crumble. It’s clear how every blow cuts away at it. Her head is down properly now, breaths stuttering between lashes, quiet whimpers giving out to cries she barely keeps measured. All this for a girl, Hades ponders as he watches. The walk to Hadestown, the breaching of his wall, the poisoning of his children. For a girl that belongs to him. It’s a fact reaffirmed by every crack of leather on her back. His girl, all this for his girl. A girl he can do what he will with, no matter what the poet tries to do about it.
Another crack of leather. The girl fails to restrain another cry. And the office fills with the heady scent of mortal blood. Hades drinks it in, relishes it as he finishes his liquor. And then he raises a hand.
The man pauses, strap raised. The girl gasps in a breath. It sounds wet. Hades regards her trembling form. Her face, what he can see of it, is blotchy and tear-soaked, her back red-raw, a scarlet stain already blooming on the wrap around her chest. There’s a personal satisfaction to it, in no way is he denying that, but enjoying the spectacle in the privacy of his office isn’t going to cut it.
“Take her to the whipping post. I’ve had my fun, it needs to be seen.”
The girl doesn’t lift her head as the man grabs her arm and pulls her to her feet. She stumbles, arms hanging limply at her sides. Hades only stops briefly to replace the strap in the man’s hand with a more fitting tool, and only follows them as far as the balcony. The girl looks back at him, briefly, as she’s led down the stairs. There’s fear in that look, pain, but no confusion. She knows exactly why this is happening.
The anger simmering beneath the tears in her eyes doesn’t escape notice.
Hades watches the small procession march down the stairs, over to a thick post set in deliberate view. The Fates are still circling, watching with undisguised eagerness as the man grabs the girl by both arms to position her against the post. Persephone arrives on the scene as the girl’s wrists are being clamped to either side of it. Hades sees the girl and the goddess lock eyes. The latter turns briefly to Hermes, perhaps looking for an explanation that the messenger doesn’t give. And then his wife is up the stairs and beside him.
“Hades. What are you doing?”
“All this for the love of a girl,” he echoes back to her.
“And what did she do? What did she do to deserve this?!”
“This is bigger than her.”
Below them, the man finishes fixing the girl in place and stands back, whip in hand. And with a nod from Hades, he takes up the rhythm again.
She can’t hold her tongue this time, not in the face of a real flogging. Persephone’s grip tightens on the balcony at the crack and the cry. The factory thrums around the post. Hades calls no more audience than the present gods and fates this time; the boy has caused disruption enough. And besides, there’s no example to be made of her for the population. Only for one poet.
Engines roar. The whip cracks. Wheels turn. The girl cries out in pain. Coal cars roll. She slumps against the whipping post, gasping for air. Stokers’ shovels swing. The rich scent of blood spilt for a god drifts up to the balcony. Persephone’s nose wrinkles at it.
“How much of this? How long are you going to torture this girl?”
Below them, the girl struggles to regain her footing, pulling herself up by the iron around her wrists. Her fists open into shaking palms. Persephone’s eyes fix on her with renewed focus. She swallows.
“Hades, she’s praying. She’s praying to me, as her queen, as your wife-”
“Plenty of prayers go unanswered.”
“She’s innocent! She’s one of your- your children, and-”
“Precisely! She belongs to me. Mine to do what I will with.”
The girl’s hands are shaking. violently. Her back is a bloody mess. Another lash, and her weight falls against the post again.
“I told you, didn’t I? That she means nothing to me.”
Persephone looks as though she’s about to protest further, or even run downstairs to intervene, but there’s no need. The poet gets there first.
Hades has no idea where he’s been lurking, and frankly, he doesn’t care. But word must have spread to whatever hole he’s been hiding in, because he comes barreling out of the throng of workers and throws himself over the girl’s back just in time for the next swing to cut a lash into him instead. Hades raises a hand. The beating stops.
The boy doesn’t turn his attention to the king. His eye is fixed on the girl below him, pulling away from her bleeding back just a little, a vain attempt to ease her pain while refusing to leave her exposed.
“Orpheus,” she whimpers, with a voice harsh from crying.
“Eurydice,” he cries back. “Eurydice, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”
He fumbles with the cuffs of the whipping post, scrambling to find a way to unlatch them.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, son.”
His head whips up to the balcony, like he’s only just realised he’s back in the presence of gods.
“If you’re going to flog anyone, let it be me,” he doesn’t hesitate to say. “I’ll take another beating, I’ll take a hundred beatings!”
“How many times do I have to tell you, son, not to interfere with another man’s property?”
“She’s done nothing to you!”
“Back away, son.”
“No!”
“Orpheus,” the girl whimpers again. “Orpheus, you should go. You should go…”
“Never, love. Never. I’ll shield you forever if I have to.”
“Hades,” Persephone implores. “Stop this.”
There’s a stuttering in the rhythm below. Cogs have stopped to watch, to witness the girl and the poet.
“You’ve done enough,” she insists. “Look at them, you’ve done enough.”
Hades considers the pair. The girl broken on the whipping post, the boy clinging to her sweat-soaked hands as he tries to shield her. The Fates watching like hawks and Hermes like he’s a mere man stood at a funeral pyre. The souls that have set down their work to watch them. His wife looking at him with an old fire in her eyes.
“I can’t,” he says. “They cannot see their king concede to naught but a pauper’s pleading.”
“Then let them see it from their queen.”
The two gods hold one another’s eye for a long moment. And then Hades turns back to the crowd.
“Your Lady has requested a reprieve for the girl, and I have decided to grant it.” He looks to the pair on the post. “This is a mercy. Do not forget it.” And then, to the man with the whip. “Take her off the post.”
The boy doesn’t give up his position of shield until the girl is loose. He’s there to catch her under the arms as she crumbles, help her to the ground. Huddles with her there as she curls into his chest. Persephone goes ahead of Hades down the stairs but stops at the bottom, and then after a moment goes to join Hermes, watching the poet mumble overworn comforts. The front of his shirt is stained blood red.
“And you, boy,” Hades says as he makes his way down the stairs. The poet doesn’t look up.
“Face me when I’m talking to you, boy. Stand and face me.”
He looks up, but doesn’t stand.
“Remember who you’re talking to, son.”
“Orpheus,” the girl implores. “I’m okay.”
“love-”
“Don’t make him angrier, Orpheus. Please.”
The poet takes a shaking breath. His eyes flick to Hermes’ for a moment, and then Persephoene’s. And then he carefully shifts the girl’s weight off him, and stands. Hades, still on the steps, stands a little straighter.
“Now, son, you’ve caused me plenty of trouble. It would give me no grief to throw you straight into the great beyond here and now, but. Given my wife is such a fan, I’m willing to extend you one last grace.”
His wife, currently, is circling behind the boy to the girl now leaning on the post. Producing a flask from her pocket, the goddess takes the girl’s head in her hand, helping her tip it back as she doses the wretch with something that makes her splutter and gag.
“One chance. One last song, boy. For an old man.”
The poet looks up at him with wide eyes.
“Make this girl’s pardon deserved.”