Before the Ivory Thrones by Charis Negley

The mortal’s song of grief reached every ear in the domain of the deceased. Lyrics engulfed Orpheus’ lips in a dense cloud of agony as he warbled the woes of his wedding day. Aiding his voice strummed a lyre, strings plucked by the fingers of a shattered soul.

Orpheus’ feet dragged through the sulfurous terrain of the Underworld as he poured out every piece of himself in his music. Wraiths ceased their aimless wandering in the Fields of Asphodel to watch and listen. Never had they heard such a voice. There was such a deep beauty in it, the kind that could only be born in brokenness.

Without even knowing the road ahead or behind, Orpheus approached the palace of Hades himself, the only one who could release Orpheus’ wife to him.

Eurydice had been dead for days, and every hour widened the chasm that cleft Orpheus’ heart. But he would have her back. One did not simply traipse into the Underworld while still alive. His godly talent had granted him entrance, pulling even Charon into a daze as he ferried Orpheus through the Styx.

Orpheus’ throat burned as he continued to sing. He might’ve been walking for days, the way his body ached, but he knew not the passage of time anymore.

He sang of the warmth of Eurydice’s touch, and what it had been like to fall in love with the loveliest girl in the world. He sang of his heart, and how Eurydice had taken half of it with her in her deathly descent. He sang of how it felt to weep until there were no tears left to weep, and how the agonized grief of love lost could never compare even to the tortures of Tartarus.

The palace of Hades rose in dark spires scraping the sky (or the Underworld’s equivalent). Ragged stones jutted out from every crevice, and as Orpheus drew nearer, the air seemed to grow even danker.

There was no gate, no door, only a gaping entrance. The area around the structure was frighteningly empty, granting the King and his wife solitude. Orpheus’ body shuddered in spite of himself.

No one stopped him as he stepped inside, and though his voice weakened and his strums slowed, his song did not end. His feet, however, stuck to the floor as the entrance widened into a throne room. Orpheus saw Their Majesties of the Underworld themselves seated upon their chairs of ivory.

Hades was the color of ashes left behind by a dying flame. His eyes still nursed the fire, delivering a piercing stare that threatened to stop Orpheus’ feeble heart. The King’s hair was gnarled and curled, the shade of brittle bone. And yet, not all of his facade was fierce. There was something imploring in the way he held his shoulders back.

Beside him sat Persephone. The Queen of the Underworld’s skin was the color of earth, soil rich and warm. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders in pleats of vines. Her full lips were the color of pomegranates, an ironic reminder of how she came to be Hades’ wife.

Orpheus’ voice still warbled, heart aching from its split, as he told the story of his beloved.

As he sang, he watched Hades’ veneer begin to crumble as his gaze turned to his wife. Something in the King’s eyes changed, and his chapped lips drew back into a line. He held up his hand, pushing himself to his feet. “Stop.”

His voice was both a whisper and a boom, and Orpheus’ feet froze to the stone floor.

“I remember,” he said, still looking at Persephone, who stared right back, her lips parting. “I remember what it is like to fall in love.”

Orpheus knelt before them, shaking as his voice died off. He kept his forehead pressed to the cold stone until Hades said, “You may speak.”

Orpheus lifted his head. “King Hades, I have come to retrieve the soul of my wife.”

Hades nodded slowly, like that was what he had expected to hear, but regretted it. “I know.”

“She was stolen from me,” Orpheus continued to plead. “There was a snake, and its dripping bite stole her on our wedding day. She was clad in yellow—” his voice broke off in a choked sob “—then clad in death.”

Hades did not answer.

“Please,” Orpheus begged, his heart twisting inside his chest. “You will never know this grief. I only ask you in desperation. I need her back with me. I cannot live without Eurydice.” His eyes filled. “Let me bring her home.”

Hades sighed, fingers curling into fists. His shoulders slumped, and he lifted Persephone by her hand. “I must seek counsel,” he told Orpheus. “Wait here.”

The King and Queen retreated from the throne room. It was only then that Orpheus heard the snickers sounding from the far-left wall.

Three women with empty eye sockets and gaping, toothless smiles laughed with each other. They had stringy red hair and might’ve been considered beautiful but for the empty orifices in their faces.

“What amuses you so?” Orpheus asked, clutching his lute to his chest.

Him acknowledging them only made the women cackle harder. One’s hand went to her mouth, where she stuck in a small, white object. A tooth.

“Do you underthtand the predicament you’ve wedged King Hadeth into?” she asked, speaking through a lisp.

“No,” Orpheus answered softly.

Their voices rose into howls of laughter once more. Another woman snatched the tooth from the first, also popping a single eyeball into her right socket. “He cannot let your wife go! If he did, thome king that would make him! Mortalth die; they do not come back. He cannot break his own thythtem! The whole Underworld would run rampant! He would never thraighten up hith people again.”

Orpheus’ heart sank. He knew that, but Hades had gone to seek counsel for a reason. All could not be lost yet.

Her other sister yanked the tooth, issuing a cry from the second woman. The third shoved it into her own gum and began to speak. “However,” she croaked, “the entire Underworld hath heard your thong of woe. If you do not get your wife back, the entire plathe will be in an uproar, too!

“Then what will he choose?” asked Orpheus.

“He cannot!” the third laughed through her words. “Thith hath never happened before! He ith thtuck!”

Orpheus held his instrument closer, drawing in a breath. He didn’t have an affirmative answer, but he had not been sent away, either. He had a chance. A prayer flew to his tongue, but he stopped soon after he began murmuring, wondering if any god would hear him in this realm and grant his wish.

So, he spoke directly to his wife instead.

“Eurydice.” Her name cracked in his throat. “Song of my lips and love of my soul, hear my cry. Come back to me.”

“Orpheus?”

Orpheus drew in a sharp intake of breath, then laughed in a broken tone. His mind had conjured her perfectly, her voice exactly as he remembered. For the first time since Eurydice had died, she felt near.

“Eurydice,” he repeated, her name a quavered song leaping from his tongue. “Eurydice, Eurydice.” The syllables were careful, rolling off his lips. He had always found her name so beautiful. “I’m almost to you, my love.”

“You’ve come,” her voice responded, breaking through her words. “You’re here.”

“Almost,” he promised. “I—”

He looked up, and his heart slammed against his ribs. Not ten strides away stood Eurydice. She was paler than death, to the extent that Orpheus could see straight through her, but there was no doubt in his mind that it was his wife standing before him.

Orpheus pushed himself to his feet, his lute falling to the floor with a woody, hollow thud that sent an off-key chord through its strings.

“I heard your song,” Eurydice whispered, and spectral tears began to drip down her full cheeks. “I think the entire Underworld did.”

“Eurydice!” Orpheus ran to her, arms outstretched, but to his dismay, when he reached for his wife, his hands passed right through her. “No, no!”

“It’s all right,” she assured him, voice shaking through her tears. She bowed her head to hide them, strands of long, dark hair obscuring her face. “I’m right here, I promise, Orpheus.”

“I lost you.” His hands, desperate for something to grab onto, lifted to his curly hair, grasping fistfuls.

“I know,” she said, hands clasped to calm their trembling. “I’m so sorry.”

Orpheus dragged in a long breath, replacing his grief with surety. “I’m bringing you back home with me.”

Eurydice’s head shot up, her eyes wide. “Is that possible?”

A new voice sounded from the door. “Why else would we have summoned you, child?”

Orpheus and Eurydice turned to see Persephone in all her majesty. Together, the living boy and the dead girl fell to their knees before the eternal Queen.

“My husband is not certain,” Persephone continued, “but he ponders the young mortal’s request.” She looked between the two, her expression filling with pity. “Whatever he decides, cherish these few moments you’ve been given now.” With that, she turned, her cape of leaves billowing behind as she made her exit.

Orpheus’ tears spilled. His wife’s intangible hands wreathed his face in a hollow, chilly hold. From the spring he thought had run dry, Orpheus cried, his raw throat searing with the effort.

It felt like a short, blessed eternity, those moments he was granted with Eurydice’s poor soul, but the time suddenly ended as the room plummeted in temperature upon Hades’ return.

Orpheus stood back up straight, Eurydice standing bravely beside him. Orpheus’ eyes still held a sheen of glass, but no tears fell anymore. He knew what he was here for, and if she was not granted to him, he would ask for the King of the departed to take his life, too.

“May we go?” Orpheus asked, hating that his voice betrayed a small tremor.

Hades set his jaw. “On one condition.”

Though fear flew through him, Orpheus’ heart soared. He felt his hand go cold as Eurydice lay her ghostly hand over his.

“You will go ahead,” Hades said in a low tone, “and I will send your wife a few steps behind you.”

“That is all?” Orpheus asked, his voice barely making a sound.

“She will not be able to see you,” the king continued. “She will follow by the sound of your voice only. Your voice was your passage down. It will be your passage out. Nothing else.”

Orpheus’ breath caught. He’d been singing for hours upon hours already. Every word now was like a slice to his throat. “Your Majesty...my voice will die before we ever leave.”

Hades’ cool demeanor sparked, lighting charred embers. “Did I ask for your contestation, boy?”

Orpheus ground his teeth, nodding. He understood how fortunate he was to have only received a reprimand for speaking back. “Forgive me, sire,” he rasped, feeling every word scrape.

“You must not look back before you get to the realm of the living,” Hades continued. “Do so, and she will remain here for all eternity.”

Orpheus’ heart stuck in his throat, though he knew not why. He was getting what he had asked for, and at so cheap a price. “So… I will not know if she follows?”

“Trust that she does,” Persephone instructed, “and no tragedy shall befall you.”

Orpheus looked at his wife, utterly terrified. How could he trust them? The gods owed him nothing. Perhaps this was all a cruel game, a trick they could laugh at the moment he left.

Eurydice stared back at him, confident, a plea in her gaze.

“Eurydice,” he grieved, “I cannot. I can sing no more.”

She shook her head, cupping his cheek in her hand. “You can. You must. Let me be your voice. Sing only for me.”

Orpheus’ mind slowed enough for him to think clearly. If she had faith, so could he.

“Thank you, Your Majesties,” he told the King and Queen, kneeling once more and pressing his forehead to the floor. He stood again, gazing upon his beloved wife one last time. “You will follow, my love? I cannot promise that…” Tears stung his eyes, and he was unable to go on.

Eurydice nodded, the touch of a smile gracing her young, sweet face. “I believe you can do this, Orpheus.” Only the touch of a tremble marred her voice. “I will follow. To the end of the world, and even beyond that. Sing, and we shall live yet.”