Orpheus allowed a certain brightness to possess his countenance as he stepped through the dour caverns that preceded the shores of the Styx. His victory over Cerberus had bolstered his confidence, for even mighty Heracles had been challenged to conquer the ferocious beast.

The bard, though, had conquered in short order what the hero had conquered with great effort. He knew his art to rival the songs of the heavens. Could it even rival heaven’s might?

“Come directly…”

He heard her again. Eurydice’s words reached Orpheus twice: first on the cold wind of Hades, and a second time on the winds of memory.

It had been his third attempt to woo her, and he’d felt it rather worse than the second. Each time before, he’d had no shortage of fair words to whisper into her unwanting ears. On the third occasion, however, his tongue had served him not. His fingers frozen upon his lyre, he’d stood before the lady in unbearable silence, cursing at last the hopelessness of his pursuit.

“Come directly,” Eurydice had said that day.

“Abandon your verse. Lay down your lyre. If you’re a worthy man, then show me. I’ll not be won with words.”

“Just come directly.”

“I will!”

Inspired as ever by the lady’s calling, the bard broke into a sprint to chase it. He was panting after but a short few steps but pressed on through his fatigue. The faint light of his lyre revealed an undulating glimmer in the distance. The sound of seawater reached him soon after, but the accompanying smell was decidedly worse.

Unwilling to cover his mouth for fear of muffling his voice, Orpheus opted to endure the sickening stench. He was thus free to shout with the full volume of his voice: a fool’s choice in the abode of the dead, but the bard had lost his sense to his sorrow.

“Eurydice!” Orpheus cried. “I am here! I have come! Eurydice!”

“Come directly…”

Orpheus slowed to a stop at the edge an expanse of water that stretched far beyond the bounds of his lyre’s light. He furrowed his brow and dipped a toe. His face twisted in disgust, and he recoiled against a sensation that called to mind every discomfort he’d ever endured. It was beyond wetness, beyond cold. It was the moist nettling of displeasure distilled.

But then, he saw her, and his mouth fell ajar: the image of his betrothed, pallid, but unblemished, just beneath the surface. She rose as his reflection, floating forth in a state of peaceful slumber. Slowly, she opened her eyes to look at him.

“Eurydice,” Orpheus uttered.

“Yes,” came her reply.

Orpheus beamed, elated to see his love. He braved pure revulsion for the sake of that love and stepped into the water.

“I have so longed to be with you again! How I have dreamed of this moment. To find you here at Hades’ first shore is a balm beyond my imagining. But your death was so recent. I should have expected you here, but in your absence, gloom claimed me all too easily.”

He tilted his head. “Eurydice?” The maiden stared at him with familiar eyes but denied him familiar words. He took another step toward her and reached out, but was frustrated to find her beyond his grasp. He stepped again, reached. She was still too far away.

“Come to me, beloved,” Orpheus pleaded. “Let us leave this dour place.”

“Come directly.” Eurydice floated farther away. A desperate Orpheus pursued her.

He pursued her until the water was at his waist, then chased her farther still. He beat his arms against the waves to pull himself nearer to his love. Alas, the more he struggled, the more futile his struggle seemed.

“Eurydice!” Orpheus shouted, his fear now tinged with fury. “Please! Give me your hand!”

“Yes,” said the shade, but she did not reach out. Something else gripped the bard in her stead.

He failed to notice at first, consumed as he was by his desperate struggle. It was just the weight of the water, he thought. But as his chin dipped beneath the waters--as he realized the impossibility of keeping himself afloat--he recognized at last the bony hands that held fast to his ankles.

He was horrified to feel the offending limbs climb their way up his legs, grabbing and groping as the shades of the Styx pulled him down to the depths. He forgot his struggle for Eurydice when his lyre’s light revealed the faces all around him: the warped and rotted faces of the countless masses that could not keep their vows.

Orpheus swung his arms and kicked his legs in a vain effort to free himself. His supple skin cracked and blackened beneath the shades’ ravenous assault. He could feel the life drain away from him with each offense against his flesh.

A mass of fingers gripped and tore at him. He fought to keep desiccated lips from pressing against his own.

In the company of a fresh captive, the shades abandoned the stolen voice of Eurydice and recovered voices all their own: far too many for the bard to count even if he cared.

“Love me.”

“Choose me.”

“I will never leave you.”

“We are bound forever.”

Orpheus flailed desperately. His mouth opened to shout defiant words that would only find deaf ears, but beneath the waves of the Styx, he could only gurgle and groan. What little strength he had abandoned him. His lungs burned as his body yearned for air.

His thoughts turned to his beloved Eurydice as he sunk with the shades. With naught but his lyre to light his descent, he bitterly lamented the unfortunate fate that ever kept him from his beloved’s embrace.