Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Deep in the shelter of an abandoned railway station, a ragged group of survivors gather around a crackling radio. One of them, sitting at the front, turns the dials this way and that, searching for a signal in the snowstorm of static. His dark eyes narrow, and widen, as the sound of a voice starts to cut through the white noise. It is a deep, smooth voice, and it is what these scavengers have been searching for.

"The skies are grey, the undead are shambling, and once again Radio Olympus is on the air. Welcome, brothers and sisters, to your one-stop shop for all your news, tips, and tricks from the wastelands. My name is Mister Hermes, and I'll be your guide, your narrator, your facilitator as we try and make it through another day in this ruined old world of ours. Coming up next, I'll be sharing some messages from all you folks out there across this barren country, but first, here's a little music."

-

Another morning, another abandoned city. The grey buildings loom tall above the skyline, their windows broken and their doors boarded up. Abandoned cars lie rusting in the streets, some with skeletons decomposing inside, others caging the ravening zombies who still claw desperately at the windows. Ivy covers the tops of the high-rises, moss sprouting through the black and rotting tarmac below. And through this scene, a group of twenty three humans walk in silence, towards the city's edge.

The convoy has been travelling south for weeks, ahead of a horde of the undead who they only just managed to shake off a week ago. They may be travelling together, but each person walks alone, their minds caught up in their own struggles. The routes they are taking, the food they are searching for, the work that they hope they can find at the end of their long journey.

In the centre of the pack, a young woman walks with determination in her eyes, her pace almost a march. Her hair is cut short in a black bob (short enough to deter grabbing hands), and she wears a black leather jacket (strong enough to resist a zombie's bite) over a brown shirt and cargo pants (pockets filled with looted energy bars). Her clothes are covered in dust from the road, her boots muddy. On her back is a green knapsack carrying all that she owns in the world, mostly spare food, canteens of water, and bits and pieces for trading. Beneath it hangs a rolled-up sleeping bag, and a wickedly sharp axe. The girl's name is Eurydice, and she is looking out for her next meal.

She stops for a moment, shades her face against the setting sun. One of the towering buildings ahead is showing the faint flickering of lights in the lower windows. Golden letters hang precariously from a sign over the entrance – Olympus Towers. Possibly an old hotel, or an apartment block. It's the name one of her allies heard on the radio, all those weeks ago; a settlement of maybe a hundred people crammed into three or four buildings, with a few rooftop farms looking for hands to come in to help sow the crops, and stay until the harvest time. Eurydice has been many things in her life – a scavenger, a raider, a messenger, a deliverywoman – but never before a farmer. It seems too sedentary a life for her. She's seen too many of these stable settlements overrun when the zombies get their scent to ever feel safe inside their walls. But her belly is empty and her feet ache, and at this minute any shelter looks like paradise. She can decide where to go next in the morning, she thinks.

Her group draws closer to the building. She is still looking out, scanning the horizon for threats. They are close to a river that winds its way through the city, but she cannot see it from where she is standing. The ground around her slopes downwards towards a distant bridge, but at its base, all she can see is a sea of grey.

Zombies. The rotting corpses shamble around, each following the next in a barrier between her and the last few blocks of the city. Behind them, she can see the edges of a gate, smoke rising from campfires or something beyond. Eurydice's lips pucker as she tries to guess how many undead there are. Thousands, most likely. They are showing typical pack behaviour. When there's no prey around, zombies will follow each other in an endless chain, shuffling forwards until they run out of ground. Then they'll turn, keep going forwards, caught in an endless loop. She watches them for a second, tries to guess how far she is from them. Not quite a mile, she reckons. Too close.

No, this place isn't safe at all. She'll stay here a few days, maybe, get her bearings, figure out if there's any delivery jobs around. Then she'll pack up once more, and hit the road. Just like she's always done.

With a grim smile, Eurydice follows the rest of her group into the building, out of the darkening night.

-

"Brothers and sisters, boys and girls, it's that special time of night that I know you've all been waiting for. There's a young boy here with a little slice of the world that was, ready to bring you back, just for a moment, to that safe, green land we all remember. Son, take it away."

There is the sound of a stool being dragged across the wooden floor, the twang of guitar strings. The second voice is nervous, small, but cuts clear across the radio static. "Hi. My...my name's Orpheus. And I'm here to play a few songs for you tonight."

-

Inside the building is what was once, clearly, a hotel lobby. The walls are painted a neutral cream, some of the paint peeling now. The floor is polished brown stone, scuffed but still obviously cared for, a tatty grey rug stretched over the open space to her left. A long reception desk stands facing the door, makeshift barstools pulled up before it. Tables and chairs in various states of disrepair litter the open space next to it – some clearly home-made, some bearing the standardised designs of the world that was. A large pair of double doors, wooden boards hiding long-shattered glass, stand opposite. The place is clean, if not neat.

A few people sit drinking at one of the tables, with a couple more gathered around a fireplace at the back of the room, getting it alight. One crouches by a portable stove, readying a frying pan. Behind the reception desk stands a woman in an apron, her hair pulled back into a hasty ponytail. One hand is wiping the desk; the other arm ends at a stump at the elbow. A young man sits behind her, absorbed in scribbling on a bit of loose paper. Next to him, a silver-haired man looks at the newcomers with interest.

Eurydice is the first of her group to march up to the counter, giving the woman a smile. "Got any rooms?" she asks, her tone polite but business-like.

The woman glances up from her cleaning, nods at her. "Upstairs," she says. "It'll cost you."

Behind her, the convoy are filing into the lobby, sitting themselves down at the tables. "I got batteries," Eurydice says, pulling a pack out of her knapsack. They were a lucky find. She'd been ready to give up on the house she was scavenging when she opened a drawer and there they were, four pristine packs of batteries, the light glimmering off them. She pops open the plastic and shows them to the woman.

"That'll do it," she says. She flicks her rag over her shoulder and holds out a hand to Eurydice. "Give me one for tonight, and we'll see how long you stick around." Nodding, Eurydice hands over one of them, replacing the pack in her bag. The woman stashes it in her apron pocket. "Stove's free if you got your own food," she says. "There's a water pump out back in the courtyard, too. Anything stronger's got a price."

"Thanks," Eurydice smiles, heaving herself up onto a barstool. It feels good to get her aching feet off the ground – it'll feel even better to actually sleep in a bed tonight.

The woman flashes her a brief grin. "No problem, hon," she says. "I'll just get things ready upstairs. You want anything, ask him." She jerks her head towards the young man at the counter, still preoccupied in his writing, and heads out.

Eurydice swings her legs for a second, turning her attention to the young man behind the bar. He's a little younger than her, in a white t-shirt and jeans under a grubby greying apron, a bright red bandana knotted at his throat. At his feet sits a guitar, the fretboard carefully mended with duct tape, the body patched with wire and string. He sits hunched over the scrap of paper he's writing on, totally oblivious to the world around him.

"Hey, kid." Eurydice says, loud enough to get his attention. "You serving?"

His head jerks up. "Huh?" He stares at her for a second, then seems to remember his job. He swings himself off the stool he was sitting on, wandering over to her with a sheepish smile. "Right, sorry," he says. His voice is high and light, softer than most. "What are you having?"

"Whatever's strong, cheap, and nasty." Proper liquor was a rare commodity these days. Most places just served whatever local moonshine was in production, and she was lucky to get that.

The young man reaches under the counter and pulls out an old Coca-Cola bottle, amber liquid sloshing around inside. He hands it to her, and she grunts her thanks.

"I'm Orpheus," he says. She looks up at him, with his shy grin and fingers fidgeting in the corners of his apron. Is he nervous? The thought of it almost makes her laugh out loud, but she restrains herself in time.

"Eurydice," she says instead.

"Eurydice," he repeats. A strange look crosses his face, and he leans on the bar. "Eurydice, Eurydice," he sings. "Your name is like a melody."

She can’t help but snort. "You make up songs for everyone that comes in?"

"No." His answer is earnest, sincere. She narrows her eyes at him, and he shrugs. "Just the ones I like."

She shakes her head. "Buy me a drink first, kid," she says, taking the first gulp from the bottle. The liquor burns as it hits the back of her throat – she shudders, swallows, and takes another swig.

When she looks back at him, Orpheus hasn't moved, that shy smile still in place. "Okay," he says. "That one's on the house."

"Seriously?" Eurydice's disbelief is genuine. She can’t remember the last time she was offered something for free. But Orpheus nods, and she shrugs, downing another swig. After a second, he makes his way back to his stool, turning away from her again as he bends to his work.

She looks askance at him. "So, uh, what are you working on there?" she asks, and his head jolts up.

"Hm? Oh. A song."

Eurydice nods. There are always a handful of musicians in the settlements she passes through, trying to hearken back to the world that was with a little music from before. "Sing me a bit," she says.

Orpheus shakes his head, scribbling another line. "No, I can't. It's not nearly finished yet."

She takes another drink. "Shame."

"Yeah." He pauses, glances up from his work. There it is again, that sheepish little smile, a coy grin that hints at multitudes. “Yeah, it is.” He swivels around in the stool to look at her face-on. “You know what’s gonna happen when I finish it?”

Eurydice raises an eyebrow. Surely the kid can’t have any lingering dreams of making it big as a singer in the middle of an apocalypse? Still, he gave her a freebie, she can afford to be nice. “What?” she says.

He takes a deep breath, as though steeling himself. “When I sing this song,” he starts, and his voice has a slight shake to it. Behind him, the silver-haired gentleman raises his head, his eyes boring into the back of Orpheus’ neck. “It’s going to turn the zombies back to normal,” he says, and Eurydice nearly chokes on her drink.

“Are you for real?” she splutters. “I thought nobody left could be that naïve.”

“No, I’m serious,” he says. There is a wounded tone to his voice now, like she has struck him deep. “It’s going to make the world right again. Bring it back to life.”

“Right,” says Eurydice. She swings her feet down from the barstool, landing neatly on the polished floor. “I’ll believe it when I see it. Thanks for the drink, kid.” She tosses the words over her shoulder as she walks away, not bothering to glance back at Orpheus. A small circle of the people from the convoy are crowded around a table, being handed drinks by the woman she spoke to before. She raises a hand to them, and a woman who had shared a canteen with her on the road waves her over.

From behind her, she hears a slight chuckle, and a voice she assumes to be the silver-haired gentleman. “Maybe don’t lead with that, next time.”

Eurydice shakes her head, pulling up a chair beside her fellow wanderers. If that’s the company she can find here, she’s definitely not going to stay long. There’s a rumour of cities now mostly devoid of the undead further north, tins of food and other luxuries left behind for the enterprising scavenger. Maybe she’ll make her way there, see what she can find. The roads stretch long before her, just outside the doors, but for tonight all she wants is a warm meal and a dry place to sleep. Tomorrow will see to itself.

-

A chime comes from the radio. Someone has been playing with the dials, and the frequency has shifted to another station. Three voices sing out from the speakers, women you can imagine crowding around a microphone in a dusty old recording studio.

"Life getting tough? Too hard to face? Get yourself down to Hades' place. It's what you gotta do, what you gotta do, what you gotta do, what you gotta do now! There's a good hot meal, oh, and a feather bed. Someplace soft and warm, for you to lay your head. So get yourself down, get yourself down, get yourself down to Hadestown!"

The second voice that cuts through is smooth and low, speaking with a practiced precision.

"Hadestown: our little slice of the world that was, just beyond the Wall. We're this coast's only manufacturer of electricity, cars, bullets - all those little luxuries vital to a comfortable life. Our scientists are hard at work perfecting the Hadestown Golden Serum; just one small injection fights the zombie infection. We have clean running water, central heating, everything you remember from the world that was. So when your belly's empty and it's cold outside, keep Hadestown in your thoughts. Our door is always open to those who make it through the Wall. And remember - in Hadestown, you are free."

-

The next morning dawns hot and bright, the protective clouds that had covered the city gone to reveal a colourless sky, the burning disc of the sun sending its scorching rays down to concrete and tarmac.

Eurydice’s room had turned out to be a converted hotel room – a small chest for her belongings, a bedframe with a pile of blankets instead of a mattress, a sun-bleached picture of a sailing ship hanging from one wall. Last night she collapsed onto the blankets after throwing her bag into the corner of the room; now she pushes herself up onto her elbows with a low moan. There is a headache brewing behind her temples and a dryness in her throat. Like every morning, she checks her skin for bites – nothing, obviously. It is a habit borne of sleeping out in the wilderness, with one eye open and her ear trained to the groans and growls of the undead.

Grabbing her jacket, she pulls it on. She has slept in her boots, and her legs ache where the leather is tight against her calves, but she forces herself to move. Downstairs, first. Get some water through her lips, some food in her belly. Then she can figure out what to do next. She heaves her knapsack onto her back, and makes her way down.

Downstairs, in the lobby/bar, a few of her fellow travellers are sitting at a table, arguing softly over a map. The woman who owns the place is toasting some slices of black bread in the fireplace. When Eurydice asks her about the water pump, she points to a side door, not taking her eyes from the flame. Eurydice nods her thanks and heads outside.

She is met with a small courtyard, nothing more than a gap between buildings, the ground paved stone. In front of her is the water pump, all black iron and rusting joints, with a small logo displayed on the side. She runs her finger over the embossed metal – it is a golden oval with a serif H in the centre. She pumps the handle, once, twice, running her hand through the clear water. She is about to put her mouth under the flow when something catches her eye.

To her left, there is a narrow alleyway closed off by a fence, chain link metal held up with iron posts. And behind that fence, there are two figures, with greying skin dropping off them in chunks and silver eyes that seem to bore into her soul, their growling low and distinct. One is a woman, the sleeve torn from her plaid shirt, the bite festering with black blood on her arm. The other is a man, his scalp half-torn off, a chunk missing from his shoulder.

Zombies.

Eurydice’s hand twitches for the axe at her back. She draws it, slowly, feeling its weight in her right hand. Taking a step forwards, she raises it to chest height, then hesitates. Sitting on one of the fence posts is Orpheus, clutching his guitar and humming under his breath. He wears a denim jacket over his clothes from last night. His eyes are closed, his hands loose around the base of the guitar.

She curses under her breath. What is he doing? Getting that close to the undead is a good way to get yourself killed, and his legs dangle just before their faces. The female zombie bats her hand at them, her mouth opening in a snarl. Eurydice takes a step forward, keeping low to the ground. If she can pull him down, he’ll be safe behind the fence. Then she’ll vault over it, take them out. A clean blow to the neck for each of them. Remove the heads, burn what’s left, clean the axe of their black blood. It’s automatic, now. 

But when she steps forward again, Orpheus plays a chord.

Both zombies’ heads snap upwards. Eurydice lets out a silent grunt of frustration. He is oblivious, just sitting up there, playing an unfamiliar song to the undead.

The woman takes a lumbering step, reaches for his foot again. This time her hand connects, and Eurydice’s body jolts forwards, ready to pull him clear. But the zombie does not sink her teeth into him, doesn’t drag him from the fence. Her hand just gently pats his foot.

Orpheus opens his eyes. With a smile, he starts to sing to them, a wordless melody. His voice is high and clear, the falsetto soaring over the courtyard. Eurydice doesn’t move, can’t take a single step. She is just standing there, axe in one hand, staring wide-eyed at the shy kid singing to the zombies.

The male zombie has joined his sister, reaching for Orpheus’ other foot. His grey hand (one finger missing) strokes up and down the boy’s boot. Neither make a grab for him, neither move to attack. They just stand there, gently swaying to the rhythm.

His hands still playing, Orpheus braces his feet against the fence and hops down into the alley. Every instinct Eurydice has is screaming at her to call out a warning, but his body has lost all of the tension and shyness of the night before. Instead he stands tall, confident, amidst the undead.

The male zombie is stroking his hair. The female zombie picks at his jacket. Neither are growling, moaning, sinking their teeth into his barely protected skin. Neither makes to grab him, hold him down as their claws rip at his flesh, tearing him apart. Is it Eurydice’s imagination, or are they smiling? There is a peaceful look on their faces as they sway gently to the music.

Orpheus is still singing. He looks deep into the woman’s eyes, and Eurydice can’t quite see his expression, but there is joy in the melody that bursts from his lips. He sings to her now, directly, and as Eurydice watches, something is happening to the zombie. Her eyes, the same deadly luminescent silver as every other undead, are clouding over, deepening to brown. Her head lolls to one side, and her hands are still.

The boy takes a step back, still playing the guitar. With one hand he pulls himself back up onto the fence post, and drops down on the other side. The zombies are still standing there, swaying slightly to the guitar.

Eurydice straightens up, replacing her axe in the loop at her back. “It works,” she says, unable to keep the awe out of her voice.

Orpheus’ playing instantly stops. He turns, panic etched into his face. “Eurydice!” All of the confidence has drained from his body, and he slings the guitar back onto his back. “I-I didn't see you.”

She is still staring past him, to the fence and what it hides. “How do they not bite you?”

That small smile creeps back onto Orpheus’ face. “I'm not sure,” he admits. “It's something about the song. Whenever I play it, it brings the light back to their eyes. It makes them people again.”

“That's crazy!” she breathes, but this time she can’t deny its truth, much as her rational mind is yelling at her to disbelieve what she has just seen.

“Yeah,” says Orpheus, twisting his hands together. “But it works.”

Eurydice comes forwards to stand beside him, looking out into the alleyway. The zombies are still shuffling around. The woman’s eyes are silver again, all expression drained from her face. Eurydice puts her hand flat against the links. “Does it work on all of them?” she says. “Does it bring them back for good?”

“I don't know.” Orpheus’ voice is faraway. “I've just been practicing on these two, you know, trying to make it last longer. So far it only lasts for a few minutes after I stop playing, see?” He gestures out past the fence. The male zombie is growling again, a deep grumble emanating from his throat. He shuffles forwards, making a fruitless grasp for Eurydice’s hand, which she pulls back. “But one day, when it's done, I want to go out to the Wall and sing it.”

“The Wall?”

Orpheus blinks. “Oh, local nickname. You know that massive horde of zombies between us and the river? That's the Wall. Only thing past that is Hadestown.” He breaks off, staring into space for a moment. She has heard that name before, something on one of the radio broadcasts her group was listening to before they came here. One of the few exclusive settlements that actually manufactures goods. She thinks back to her glimpse of the Wall – the gate, the smoke she had assumed was campfires. Could it have been a factory? She had to admit, it had a good defensive position. From the maps, they had the river surrounding on all sides. The only danger was this Wall.

“But I want to go out to them and sing,” Orpheus continues. “There must be thousands of zombies out there. Imagine if all of them were brought back! When the song's finished, it's going to have that power.”

She shakes her head, turning to face him. “You'd be risking everything.”

Orpheus is grinning now, and his hands clutch for hers. Instinctively, she pulls back, then her hands soften in his grasp. “Yeah, but just think about it,” he says. “If I sang my song - if I brought them back - we could go out into the abandoned places, build a home again. We wouldn't have to keep running from the hordes, we could settle. Be a community.”

She can’t help but smile. “Like the world that was.”

“No, better!” He lets go of her hands, starts gesturing wildly, his voice soaring in the little space. “The world that could be. Not going back to the way things were, starting fresh. We can build a better world, one step at a time. We could have farms, real farms, that wouldn't get trampled by the zombies. Orchards, and vineyards, fields of green and blue skies, and we'd have enough people to work them because we'd have all of the zombies back. Parents and children, brothers and sisters, friends and strangers, we can all be reunited with those we lost. And when our children ask us about the way we lived, they won't even be able to imagine what it was like. They'll never have spent a single day in fear of the Wall, or the hordes, or the hunger, or anything. They'll be free.”

Her mind is reeling. This is hope the size of which she has never encountered before, not in her hazy memories of the world that was, not in the long and lonely years since. Her heart is begging her to follow his vision; her head tells her that it’s a nice thought, but that is all it is. Instead, she slips on a teasing smile.

“Our children?”

Orpheus’ face is pure panic. “I..I mean, you know, the children,” he stutters. “The-the children of the future, the ones who come after us. Not-I mean, unless that's-what, what I meant was-“

“I'm teasing you,” Eurydice grins.

Orpheus rubs the back of his neck, smiling ruefully. “I knew that.” He closes his eyes, taking in a breath. “I just wish I could finish it.”

“Why don't you?”

“It's not easy. It's like...I'm not making it up. The song comes to me, in bits and pieces. Like it's something I heard once. Mister Hermes says it's an old song, but it's not in any of the songbooks I've traded for.”

Eurydice shakes her head. She still can’t quite believe it, that this kid has a power the likes of which she’s never seen. Something is bubbling within her, an emotion she has barely felt these last decades. It’s the feeling of pure joy. When she speaks again, it is with a voice she thought that she had abandoned years ago – the voice of a child. The voice of an optimist. “It's incredible. You're incredible.”

He steps closer to her, until the gap between them is a mere inch. “You're incredible,” he breathes.

She reaches up at the same time that he tips his body forwards. Their lips meet in the middle, brushing each other with a soft touch. They part, laugh, and Eurydice stands on her toes to kiss his cheek.

“I’m-” Orpheus says.

“Yeah.” She cups his cheek in her hand. “Look, I don’t know how long I’m going to stay here, but…can we have today?”

When he smiles, it’s like the sun breaking out over a cover of clouds. “Okay,” he says, and takes her hand, and their kiss melts the ice around her heart. For a moment, just a moment, but she has been living from moment to moment for twenty long years. And right now, this one is all she needs.

Chapter Text

"Good afternoon, folks. You're listening to Radio Hadestown, and I'm here today to tell you about the Hadestown Community Outreach Programme. See, it's not easy to get beyond this old Wall of ours, and our team of scientists are working hard to find the breakthroughs that will make all of our lives easier. So from the sowing of seeds to the fall harvest, we're sending some of our brightest minds out to you, the settlements that need it most, headed by my beautiful wife. This year, she's going out to a little place called Olympus Towers, to see what help Hadestown can give. So when you're tossing and turning at night, trying to think of a way to put this old world back the way it was, remember Hadestown. Here, we're free. Here, we have hope. Here, we're setting the world to rights."

-

It has been six days since Eurydice came to Olympus Towers, and Orpheus wakes to find her sleeping on his arm again. There is a smile on his face as he lies there, watching her breathe. Outside, the sun is climbing in a pink sky, its first rays just now beginning to creep through his half-shuttered window. Soon they will have to get up, Eurydice heading up to the roof while Orpheus makes his way downstairs, but just for this second he can lie and be content.

They share the first minutes of their morning in the middle of what Hermes refers to as their 'suite'. In reality, it's three of the old hotel rooms, joined together through holes in the walls covered in shutters and loose sheets. Hermes' room is on the right, with his camp bed set up on one side and the radio equipment on the other. Orpheus' room is the left, posters and photographs pulled from old magazines lining the walls, his guitar propped up against a writing desk. The room in the middle has been stripped of the bedframe and wardrobe, and now holds a miscellany of chairs, from the overstuffed armchair to the loveseat with the patched upholstery. Around the edges are various plastic storage boxes, filled with cans and water filters and plastic bottles. A bookcase stands against one wall, divided down the middle – notebooks and songbooks piled up on the left, dog-eared novels neatly spaced on the right.

In the middle of the floor is a firebox stove, on top of which is a frying pan. Orpheus carefully cracks eggs into it while Eurydice washes herself in his room; there's no running water any more, but Orpheus keeps a little washstand, with water from the pump downstairs and a cake of grey soap. She comes through his door, drying her face with a towel, and when she sees him sitting there she breaks out into a smile.

As the sun climbs higher in the sky they kiss outside the room, Eurydice waving to Orpheus until she has turned the corner to the stairs. He is grinning, his guitar in one hand and a toolbox in the other. He bangs on Hermes' door as he goes past and hears an answering groan. "You told me to wake you up, Mister Hermes!" he calls, before making his way downstairs.

His days, until now, have been pretty much the same. In the morning he does repairs around the building, keeping it stumbling along for another day without anything major breaking down. That was something Hestia, the woman who had claimed Olympus Towers as her own, had taught him when he was still young and itching to do something to help. Later on, he had started helping her out in the bar, but she hadn't let him do that until he turned sixteen, no matter how much he protested. "Orpheus, I'm not letting a kid be around a bunch of drunk people," he remembers her saying. "Later, sure, but not now. If you wanna do something to help around here, you can help me keep up with repairs. I swear, I so much as turn my back, something breaks in this place."

This morning, there isn't a lot to do. One of the beds is slowly coming apart, the boards held together with the last of the duct tape. The stove downstairs isn't getting as hot as it should. Some of the doors have come off their hinges and need to be put back on. Little things, but Orpheus likes doing them.

He eats lunch with Mister Hermes, as usual. Eurydice is still upstairs - one of the perks of farm work is a hot meal in the middle of the day. By this time, Hermes has been broadcasting through the morning; swapping messages with other settlements, playing music he's bought from the scavengers, telling stories from the old world, or reading one of his books out on air to the people listening. When it's slow, Orpheus sometimes joins him, playing his guitar and singing for Hermes' audience. He doesn't know how many people listen to Radio Olympus, but a fair few travellers recognise his voice as he sings down in the bar, when the nights are long and cold.

Over a pot of instant noodles, Hermes is telling Orpheus about a trader he's contacted, who says she has the last volume of a book series he's been reading. "And a good thing, too," he says. "The listeners won't stop calling in to see if I've found the last one yet. You know I can't leave a story half-told."

"Finally," grins Orpheus. "How long have we been waiting for the ending, now, three months?"

"Something like that," Hermes says. "It's getting harder and harder, these days, to find a book that hasn't been made into firewood."

Orpheus sits back, frowning. "I wish we had more books," he says, gazing out of the window. His left hand stirs his bowl of noodles unconsciously. "Wouldn't it be great to have libraries again? That way, anyone could read, whenever they wanted to."

"Not everybody has the time, between fighting off the hordes."

"I know." Orpheus had been the one to suggest that Hermes read his collection on the air, a long time ago. He had always loved it when Hermes read him stories, or told him long and rambling anecdotes about his life before the zombies. "But it's gonna be the first thing I do, when the song's finished."

Hermes chuckles. "You gotta build it soon, Orpheus. I think I'd like to retire to a library."

"I will," says Orpheus. "Just you wait."

His afternoons are spent one of two ways. If Hestia needs him in the bar, he'll help her clean and tidy and serve any of the early travellers. If not, he'll be in his room, practising his guitar and working on the song. His desk is littered with smoothed-out bits of paper, lines of song and music notes crowding into every available space. In truth, he works on the song no matter where he is. His guitar follows him everywhere he goes, and there is always a scrap of paper in his pocket.

He doesn't remember a time when music wasn't a part of him. He was always humming tunes under his breath, beating out rhythms on every surface, clicking his fingers and singing snatches of melody. He does it now, as he works, his voice soft and lilting. Something about the music makes him feel good. When he's singing or playing, he can shrink the world to just the space around him, close his eyes and drift away in the melody. Even if a room is crowded, if he's singing, he can feel like he's alone for a moment. He lives for those snatched seconds, just him and the song and the world gone quiet.

This afternoon, he has cleaned the tables and taken stock of the inventory when Eurydice appears at the door, wiping sweat from her brow and smiling when she sees him. He feels the familiar weight of her in his arms, and listens as she catches him up on how her day has been. It's funny, he thinks, how easy this all is. For the first couple of days, she tiptoed around the edges of his routine, but now she's a part of it. Morning, eat breakfast with Eurydice. Evening, sit with Eurydice and talk about everything. He still wonders at how quickly it all fell into place, how natural it feels.

Orpheus hasn't had a lot of people he's been this close to. Not because people don't like him - though some people act a little strangely around him, because of his too-long stares and the way he constantly moves his hands and his way of seeing things. Still, it's a rare day when he doesn't end up in a circle of people by the end of the evening, chatting about this and that. But it's hard to maintain a friendship when most of the world is constantly on the move. Sometimes he gets messages out to people with Hermes' radio, sometimes he sees them again when they pass through a few months later. Here, he has Mister Hermes, and Hestia, and some of Mister Hermes' old friends that live nearby. And now, he can add Eurydice to their number.

Now, the night has drawn its cloak over the world, and Orpheus and Eurydice are nearly the only ones left awake. They sit together, his arm around her, illuminated only by the orange glow of a candle before them. She huddles into his side, her eyes fixed on that tiny flame; he draws her close, smiling when her hair tickles his nose. She is holding a plastic flower – that morning, he traded one of his old songbooks that he has memorised for it. Nobody's growing real flowers these days, but some people still collect their artificial substitutes.

They are talking, unusually, of the world that was.

"I was five on Day Zero. At first it was me and my mama...then it wasn't," says Orpheus. His eyes half-close – he remembers that time constantly, when he wakes in the middle of the night to find the darkness closing in and he's back there, cowering in a closet and listening to the growling and screaming from outside, his arms wrapped around his mother's guitar. "I was lucky, though. Mister Hermes found me hiding. We've been together ever since." He remembers that, too. Three sharp gunshots, the door opening to a crack of light. Hermes' hands reaching down to him, his face filling Orpheus' vision, his soothing voice in the boy's ear. "Just look at me, kid. That's it. We'll be alright." He knew him from before, a friend of his mother's from the radio station. He buried his head in Hermes' coat and didn't look back, not even once.

Eurydice's voice cuts through his thoughts. "I was outside, with some friends. We were at a playground, about half a mile from my apartment. It took us three hours to get back through the zombies. We did a tour of everyone's homes. When we got to mine...I was just glad I'd managed to find that baseball bat." Her eyes close, and he strokes her hair. "I've been wandering ever since."

"All on your own?"

She shrugs a shoulder. "Sometimes. Sometimes with others that are going my way."

Orpheus shakes his head. "I don't know what I'd do without Mister Hermes. We've been here since the start - he used to work nearby, scavenged all his radio stuff and set it up here." They'd stayed somewhere else before, a cold grey room that Orpheus barely remembered. He'd sit there, holding the guitar and not talking, making signs when he wanted something. Then one day Hermes sat beside him and asked "You wanna know how to play that thing?" Orpheus nodded, and Hermes shifted, showing the boy how to shape his hands into the chords. "Keep your hand there like that. Good. Now strum – that's it. That's an A. Now relax your hand and see if you can do it again. Almost, put that finger a little higher. That's it, you're getting it. Now this is a B…" By the time Hermes got a message about the fledgling settlement that would become Olympus Towers, Orpheus had mastered the basics.

"You're lucky," Eurydice says. "From what I've seen, everyone leaves you in the end."

"I won't leave you." He feels it deep in his chest, like an instinct.

Eurydice looks up at him and smiles. "You know, I can believe that."

He isn't sure if she's teasing him or not. "I'm serious," he says. "I feel like I've known you way more than just a handful of days."

She sighs, and stares back at the candle. There is something faraway in her expression when she speaks. "I don't know if I'm gonna stick around. I mean, moving on, it's what I've always done."

Orpheus draws her closer. "I'll look after us. I'll sing, people will give us food and stuff to trade. Me and Mister Hermes have a stockpile, we'll make it through. And when I finish my song, we can start building our world together."

When she looks back at him, her expression is like the rising sun. "I've never heard anyone talk like you," she says. "So...hopeful. You're the only person I've met who'll actually talk about the future."

"Does that mean you'll stay?"

"I'll think about it," she says, but when he frowns she nods, and laughs, and her smile lights the corners of her eyes. Slowly, he thinks, he is tearing down the walls she has built around her heart, with words and songs and time spent in each other's arms. Later, she murmurs sleepily into his shoulder "I'm sorry I doubted you before," and he kisses her gently on the head and carries her upstairs to bed.

A week later, Orpheus is wiping tables in the bar, Eurydice chatting with him from a nearby chair, when there is a commotion from outside. The sound of an engine, a rare noise in this world, cuts through the quiet. Outside, a long black car has pulled up, and two figures step out.

The first is the driver, a white-haired man in an immaculate pinstriped suit. He opens the door for the second, a middle-aged woman in a long green dress, a light labcoat thrown over it. She heaves two suitcases out of the car and stalks up to the doors, not acknowledging the man. He clears his throat, and with a roll of her eyes she turns. He holds out a case to her, a silver box just bigger than his palm. She sighs, snatches it from him, and stalks into the building, leaving him to return to the car and drive away.

Hestia is the first to see her. "Lady Persephone!" she calls from behind the bar. "Long time no see."

Persephone sashays up to the counter, greeting her with a hug. "Enough of the 'lady'," she says. "You're making me feel old." When she heaves a suitcase up onto the counter, something clinks inside.

Hestia raises an eyebrow. "What you got for me?"

With a flourish, Persephone opens the suitcase and pulls out a bottle, shaking it slightly so the amber liquid inside sloshes around. The bottle had a printed label on the side, unlike all the ones behind the bar, and is properly sealed. "The finest imported liquor that Hadestown has to offer."

Hestia gives a low whistle. "You know I can't pay for that, right?"

Persephone's smile doesn't falter. She starts taking bottles from the case, placing them on the counter. "All I want's enough of your foulest moonshine to kill an elephant."

"You sure? That stuff's lethal."

She looks uncertain, but Persephone just laughs. "Don't worry, it's not for me."

They are interrupted by the sound of the doors upstairs opening - Hermes stands before them, grinning. "As I live and breathe," he says, making his careful way over to the bar.

"Hermes!" Persephone's smile broadens, and she takes his arm. "How's tricks?

"Oh, you know, we're surviving. Ditch your husband yet?"

She snorts. "As if. It's a miracle he lets me out. I had to nag him for weeks to let me get this far away."

Hermes' eyes narrow. "Even he can't deny the power of a good public image."

They have reached the bar again, and Persephone lets go of Hermes' arm. Hestia has stacked up a small crate of bottles - Persephone refills her suitcase with them, nestling them among the clothes. "You have no idea," she says. "The amount of young people that show up at the gates after the fall, desperate to make a difference..." She trails off. There is a strange, bitter look in her eye. Her tone is deliberately light as she changes the subject. "Anyway, let's not think about that. Look at that sun! We should be out celebrating." She gestures out of the door. Indeed, the summer is coming in humid and bright, grey clouds parting to reveal a blank sky, the sun's disc scorching the stone and tarmac below.

Hermes nods, and goes to head back upstairs. "I'll get the word out," he calls over his shoulder. She gives him a mock-salute.

It's Orpheus' turn now, and he stuffs the rag he's been wiping tables with in his apron pocket, heading over to her. Eurydice follows close behind, staring at the newcomer with interest. "Lady Persephone!" he says.

Persephone turns at the sound of his voice, beaming. "Orpheus! Good to see you again."

"Are you here to stay, this summer?" Often Persephone is just passing through on her way out to some of the other nearby settlements.

She nods. "This summer, yes."

"Good. I missed you."

"Missed you too," says Persephone, but before she can say any more Eurydice steps forward.

"You're from Hadestown?" she asks.

Persephone's eyebrow arches upwards as she looks at Eurydice for the first time. She's still smiling, but there is a questioning look in her eye. "Look at that, I'm famous," she says, lightly.

Orpheus rubs a hand on the back of his neck. "Oh, uh, sorry, this is Eurydice. Eurydice, this is Lady Persephone. She's Mister Hermes' old friend."

Eurydice raises a hand. "Hi."

"Nice to meet you." Persephone nods to her, then turns her attention to Orpheus. "Listen, I want to get everyone outside, have a celebration of this sun. Will you play for us?"

"Sure," Orpheus grins. "Will you tell us your stories?"

With a shrug, she tips her hand from side to side. "Hermes tells them better than me."

"He can't tell them the way you do."

She laughs, and glances behind him. Hermes has returned, with some of the other permanent residents of Olympus Towers. She gives Orpheus and Eurydice an apologetic smile. "See you in a bit, alright?"

Eurydice taps Orpheus' arm, and he turns to her. "Won't a celebration draw in the zombies?" she frowns.

"Yeah," says Orpheus. "But we got enough people here with weapons. Some of us take shifts staying out of the party to keep watch."

"Huh." Eurydice elbows him lightly in the ribs. "Guess you guys aren't as irresponsible as you look." Orpheus sticks his tongue out at her, and they laugh as they go back over to the tables.

An hour or so later they are all outside, in the space in front of the building; the permanent residents, the itinerant workers, the rooftop farmers, the passers-through, all sitting together under the baking sun. A few people stand in a protective circle around the gathering, carrying baseball bats studded with nails, fire axes, and homemade spears.

Hermes plays music from his old cassette tapes and Persephone grabs Hestia's hand to lead them all in a dance. Orpheus finds himself dancing with everyone - Persephone brings him in and he twirls around with her, then stomps and claps across a sea of familiar and unfamiliar faces, before catching Eurydice's hand and joining her in a clumsy waltz that ends with them both collapsing to the floor, giggling. He spins and claps and laughs and sings, and when the noise around him threatens to be too much and the amount of people is overwhelming, he goes back to the bar and sits in the quiet for a moment, recharging.

When he emerges, he has his guitar in hand, and Hermes shuts off his cassette player as Orpheus strums a chord. He plays them everything he knows; fast songs to leap and dance to, slow songs for holding each other, old songs that everyone knows the words to, new songs he's just made up. When he sets his guitar down, other musicians come out of the woodwork. A traveller pulls a drum from her pack, a resident hefts a battered trumpet. Instruments are brought down from rooms, improvised from whatever is around. After some cajoling, even Hermes picks up Orpheus' guitar and plays a few tunes.

As the sun sets, somebody builds a campfire in the middle of the square. The night air is still warm on their necks but the orange flames give them light. Things have calmed, now, and the songs that are played are slow and filled with longing. Hestia passes drinks around, the people sit and talk. Eurydice leans her head on Orpheus' shoulder and he wraps his hands around her. They listen to the stories being told - Hermes and Persephone reminiscing of the world that was, a world most around the campfire can barely remember.

Hermes is telling a story that Orpheus has heard a thousand times before, about a young couple he knew before day zero. He's changed the names, but Orpheus knows that it's about Persephone and her husband. Even if he didn't, he'd be able to guess, from the faces she's making and the long slugs she takes from the bottle beside her. Persephone never speaks of what happened between then and now, but Orpheus knows something must have. The picture Hermes paints is of a pair devoted to each other, who spend every second they can in each other's arms. Orpheus finds Eurydice's hand, holds it in his, and they share a quiet smile.

When it's Persephone's time to speak, she speaks of the summers that were, the green and wild places she used to visit as a child. Forests, fields, farms – all these things that Orpheus has seen in pictures, can barely remember seeing in the world before. She tells stories about her mother, an old farmer living in the middle of nowhere, who taught Persephone everything that she knew. She tells of the seasons, summer and spring and fall and winter, how the weather changed so gradually back in those days. As she talks, her eyes shine with the campfire's dim glow, and her expression is of easy serenity.

At some point, later in the evening, people are making toasts to the stars. Somebody pulls him to his feet, puts a fresh glass in his hand, and Orpheus holds it to the sky. He looks at Persephone across the flickering firelight, her hair coming loose and her coat tied around her waist. He looks at Hermes, tuning Orpheus' guitar with a small, contented smile. He looks at Eurydice, who sits beside them and grins at him. When he opens his mouth, the words come spilling out.

"To the summer, and the seeds that grow tall for the harvest to come!" When he speaks, the circle of people stops talking and faces him. Their eyes are shining, their tired grins easy and carefree. He lowers the glass slightly and winks at Persephone. "To Persephone, who teaches us how to care for them, and brings a little green to our grey old world!" He spreads his arms wide. "To us, the people, and the work of our hands that will bring in a bounty! To the world that is, and the world that could be!"

Orpheus raises his glass to his lips, then pauses for a final thought, which comes to him in a whisper.

"May it be everything we've ever dreamed of."

-

"Hello again, brothers and sisters. This is Mister Hermes with another glimpse of the world that was, courtesy of your good friend and mine, Orpheus, the songbird of the airwaves. All yours, Orpheus."

"Thanks, Mister Hermes. Actually, I'm not here today to sing about the world that was. See, I was just a kid when this all started, I don't even remember what it was like. The songs I sing, I get them out of songbooks, I don't remember them. There's this one I've been working on...but that's not finished yet.  So here's a different song I wrote, for the future. For the world that could be."

-

The summer seems to pass in a blur. Though the days were already warm, it seemed that the season had been waiting for Persephone's arrival to start fully. She sets up shop in a room underneath the farm, and spends most of her days with the agricultural workers on the rooftop. Orpheus sees her sometimes, deep in conversation with the farmers or carrying samples of plants from place to place. Sometimes she is sitting in the corridors, rifling through old magazines on her breaks. In the evenings, she comes down to the bar with them, and every night that she is there feels like another celebration. They sing and dance, or sit and tell stories into the early hours of the morning, Orpheus sitting at her feet the same way he has since he was small. She is always lost in one thing or another - in her work, in the crowd, in a midnight dance under the stars.

Orpheus sees her and wonders, sometimes, about what she is thinking. Persephone has always been one to show up with a grin and a dance, but he's had a lifetime full of her stories, and Hermes' too. Hermes may refuse to tune in on principle, but sometimes Orpheus overhears one of the travellers listening to Radio Hadestown in the bar. She never talks about her husband when she's at Olympus. They've all heard the stories – the utopia beyond the Wall, where everything is like the world that was. Hermes always laughs at that, and Persephone orders another drink. Orpheus doesn't know what to think, but he knows that he never wants to meet Hades.

Eurydice has moved into his place entirely now, her few belongings kept neatly packed in a chest under his bed. They've found another bedframe in one of the condemned rooms that's mostly in good shape, and after some effort pushed it into Orpheus' room. Their days are ever the same, caught up in the summer haze of love and happiness and flowing wine. (Or, at least, cheap moonshine.) She doesn't talk about leaving any more. Instead, they talk of Orpheus' vision, of the world that could be and the things they are going to do when he finishes his song. He talks of building – farms and libraries and concert halls, places where people can be together. She talks of travelling with him, exploring the world without fear or danger. Together, they are building their image of the world that will be, little by little inside their heads.

The days blur together, one after the other, and soon the summer heat is gone, replaced by a crisp wind blowing in from the south. The crops grow fat and ripe under Persephone's careful hand, and talk around the Towers turns to the harvest. Orpheus volunteers to help if they're short of hands, the same as he does every year. If his motive is more to get more time around Persephone and Eurydice than pure altruism, he doesn't say, and nobody asks.

But one day, not too long after the weather turns, that black car returns, gliding through the Wall and coming to a stop outside Olympus Towers. The white-haired man steps outside, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, suit clean and pressed. He says nothing, does not come inside, just leans on the car bonnet and waits.

Word of his arrival filters upstairs quickly. Before too long, Persephone is storming out of the door, her hands still smudged with dirt. "You're too early," she snaps, coming to a stop before him.

The corner of Hades' mouth quirks upwards. "It's good to see you, too." His voice is a bass rumble. By now, people are congregating in the doors, looking out at the spectacle. Orpheus is among them, worry etched into his face.

"The harvest's not even in yet," Persephone argues. "You promised me three more weeks!"

Hades waves a hand lazily. "You know how dangerous it is when the nights get darker."

"I'm not a child, Hades."

She stands there for a second, staring him down. He lifts himself out of his slouch, standing to his full height. Orpheus can't see his eyes behind the sunglasses, but his head tilts slightly upwards, as though he is just seeing their audience.

When he speaks again, his voice is quiet, but firm. "Get in the car."

Persephone holds up her hands. She looks around her, anger worrying her jaw. "At least let me get my things," she says finally.

She comes down again with her suitcases in one hand, the small silver case held tight in her other fist. She accepts hugs from the workers, shakes hands with Hestia, nods to Hermes and stops when she gets to Orpheus.

"I'll be back," she tells him with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "And next time, I'll see if I can get you guys some new books."

"That'd be good," says Orpheus, then he pauses. "I wish you didn't have to go so soon."

Persephone looks back at the others, shakes her head. "I know," she says. "I'm sorry."

Hades, stood in the doorway, clears his throat. She rolls her eyes, picks up her suitcases again. "Goodbye, everyone," she says. "I'll see you all later." And with that, she is gone, and already the room seems colder without her presence.

A few days later, more bad news rolls in from the north. Hermes starts picking up reports of a horde coming their way, at least five hundred zombies in a pack making their way south.

"It's not as bad as it could be," Orpheus tells Eurydice that night. "They'll take over the city for a few weeks, but they'll all end up joining the Wall when the pack moves on."

"Will we be able to get outside?" Eurydice's hands twitch as she asks the question. She is looking out of their window over the city, as if she can see them in the distance.

Orpheus shakes his head. "Usually we've gotta spend some time holed up in here. But when the harvest's done, we'll have enough of a food stockpile to last us until they're gone."

Eurydice nods. "I'll go out scavenging, when we're done with the farms. There's got to be something left out there."

A week passes, and then another. The horde is nearer. Eurydice goes out to the edge of the city one night and hears them, a wall of groaning and growling in the distance. The harvest is done, but the crops aren't as plentiful as they had hoped; some have been eaten up by insects, others gone bad from something in the soil. One of the farmers shakes her head – "If Persephone had stayed, she could have shown us what to do." The food is shared between the farmers and the residents, but there's little to go around.

They are given their portion in an old wooden crate. Eurydice stares at it for a long moment, a few bruised vegetables rolling around at the bottom of a box more air than food. “We’re gonna be okay though, right?” she says. “When your song is finished.”

Orpheus nods. “I gotta finish it,” he says, almost to himself.

And just like that, it is like something has clicked in his head. Suddenly the song is all that he can think about. He is sequestered in his room for long hours, scribbling down lyrics and notes in what little paper he has left – when that runs out, Eurydice brings him old newspapers, menus, flyers, anything that she can find. She and Hermes trade off on making sure that he eats and drinks enough. For days their lives are accompanied with stuttering music from behind Orpheus’ door; a burst of melody interrupted by silence, then played again and again and again as he commits it to memory.

La, la la la, la la la… 

Orpheus is working like he’s never worked before. It always hits him like this – long stretches with little inspiration or motivation, then energy runs through his blood, and he can do nothing else but play and write. The world has shrunk to the little circle around him, just Orpheus and his voice, him and the song entwined together, and it’s not that he doesn’t care about what’s happening out there in the world, it is just faded, deep in the background. His fingers are calloused from picking out chords. He writes in his smallest handwriting in the margins of old textbooks, along the edges of menus, on the back of his hand, everywhere he can find to get that melody, those words out into the world.

Every time he hears the dull groan of zombies outside makes him want to work harder. Every time he thinks of himself and Eurydice walking through the horde to a world with blue skies and green fields and happiness and freedom, he plays the song again from the top. He doesn’t know how many days it’s been since he started, but he’s making progress, he can feel it. It won’t be long now, he thinks. Not too long.

La, la la la, la la la…

One day he comes downstairs for a notebook that he had tucked away under the bar. He catches the middle of a conversation as he walks through the lobby, from Eurydice and someone he doesn’t remember the name of sitting at a table.

“-getting worse out there, E,” the man he doesn’t recognise is saying. “Time to hit the road.”

“I’m not leaving without Orpheus,” Eurydice says.

“Your loss.” As Orpheus fumbles under the bar for his little hiding-place, he hears the sound of a chair being scraped back. “You know, your boy's a good singer and all, but he's got his head in the clouds. He can't bring the world that was back all on his own.”

He straightens up just in time to hear Eurydice’s quiet reply. “He’s not trying to.”

La, la la la, la la la…

Little by little, the song is coming together. He can hear it all the time, echoing between his ears. It comes to him from on high, or from a place deep within himself – like the melody has been coiled in the centre of his chest this whole time, just waiting to be set free. He scribbles revisions and reimaginings, lets the story of the song wash over him. It’s about love, an old love, a love that lived in the world that was. Hermes told him so many stories of Lady Persephone and her husband, from before day zero and after. Something in his words sparked a melody, and the song was started. Discovering its power was a happy accident – he was singing it under his breath while working on the water pump, before the alleyway was fenced off, but the zombies that lumbered towards him didn’t claw and bite and tear. They just stood and listened.

The days grow dark and cold. Orpheus works by the light of candles, a small gas lamp, whatever electric lights they have scavenged. Eurydice has donated her remaining batteries to the cause. Hermes is still getting small amounts of supplies from listeners trickling through with the passers-through, though they too are scarce. Eurydice comes back each day from scavenging an ever-shrinking circle around the Towers with a knapsack emptier than it should be. Orpheus barely sees this, so focused is he on his work. If he can finish the song, everything will be okay. If he can finish the song, they’ll be fine.

La, la la la, la la…

Eurydice stands in the middle room, a scrap of paper in her hand and a pencil tucked behind her ear. The sun is setting over the buildings, but in its dim light she can see out of the window. Zombies throng the streets, their groans as ever-present as the sound of Orpheus’ voice. She can almost see their faces from her second-story window. A man in a red plaid shirt drags himself down the street, one arm and one leg missing. A child still holding the tattered remains of a balloon lumbers beside him. Three women in grey advance towards the Towers, malice in their silver eyes.

On the paper is an inventory of all the food they have in store. Eurydice has counted it five times now. The number has remained the same – too little. Even if they ration what they have even further, it won’t last for weeks. They will run out, in the end.

She turns her paper over and stares at the picture on the other side. The white-haired man from the car, those months ago, stares back out at her. He stands in a greenhouse, looking out over a park with a waterfall down the centre. HADESTOWN, reads the text. A LITTLE PATCH OF PARADISE.

Shaking her head, she turns it again to look at the numbers. “Not enough for three,” she says, under her breath. “But for two…”

Her knapsack sits by the door. The axe, still wickedly sharp, gleams from its place in a corner. She doesn’t have much in Orpheus’ room, just a spare set of clothes. She puts the paper down on a table, slings the knapsack over her shoulder. Outside Orpheus’ door, she knocks three times.

“Orpheus?”

There is no answer. She can hear him shifting, hear the familiar lilting tone of his melody sounding forth. He probably can’t even hear her. Maybe that’s for the best.

She looks back out the window to the oncoming horde. If this is what she has to do to save those she loves, then so be it. Maybe after a while in Hadestown, she’ll be allowed to come back out and see him. Send him things from beyond the Wall. If Persephone can do it, why can’t she?

Eurydice picks up her axe and threads it into the loop under her knapsack. Even if she’s bitten, it won’t be the end. She can live in Hadestown. She can fight the infection. Sighing, she heaves the bag up once more, checks that she can reach the axe handle. As she slips out of the door, closing it gently behind her, regret burns her heart, but there is only one thought in her mind.

Better a half-life than no life at all.

-

"Hey there, folks, this is Radio Hadestown, and I'm the one they call Hades. Some of you are worried about coming to this old town of mine. I hear you saying, 'Mister Hades! It's tough getting through the Wall. What if I'm bitten?' Well, our scientists have been hard at work on the Hadestown Golden Serum, and I'm here to explain to you how it works. See, when you make it to our doors, with that infection seeping through your veins, our team of professionals is ready to give you a dose and put you in quarantine. If your blood is strong enough, you'll be able to fight that zombie virus for another day. Now, the Golden Serum is no cure. It's something far better than that. It makes you into something we call a 'half-life'. You get all the strengths of the zombie - muscle power, tenacity, single-mindedness - and you still get to keep control. Well, here in Hadestown, we can always use a person like that. We'll give a free bunk to any person who works in our factories and down our mine. So just keep Hadestown in your thoughts. You can always come to us when you're tired of running scared from the living dead."

-

When Orpheus leaves his room, there is something strange in the air. Hermes is sitting on the sofa, bent over a scrap of paper. He doesn’t look up. Eurydice is nowhere to be seen.

“Eurydice?” Orpheus asks, and Hermes raises his head.

“She's gone,” he says.

“Gone?” Orpheus can feel his breath start to quicken, his hand start to shake. “What do you mean, gone?

Hermes stands up, crosses the room to him. There is an expression in his eyes that Orpheus cannot place. “I mean gone. Since this morning, or maybe last night. Her bag’s gone, and she wrote this.” He holds up the paper. Underneath a careful inventory, two words are written in a shaky hand. I’m sorry. “I asked the others, nobody’s seen her since yesterday night.”

“No.” Orpheus sits down. His head slips into his hands; his heart is racing. She can’t be gone, he thinks. She can’t be.

“You were so busy with your song, and I was on the air,” Hermes says, and this time Orpheus can identify the regret in his voice. “She could have been calling for us, and we didn’t hear.”

“But I finished the song,” Orpheus says. “I finished it for her.”

Hermes gives him a sad smile. “I know. I know you can't help it. But she's gone all the same.”

Orpheus stands up. He feels the familiar weight of his guitar at his back, clenches his hands into fists. “I'm going to get her back.”

“Orpheus-”

“I'm going to get her back!” It comes out louder than he’d intended.

Hermes swallows, takes a step back. “How? She'll have gone beyond the Wall!” He brandishes the paper once more – it’s one of those adverts for Hadestown, the kind that somehow accumulates in the bar.

Orpheus steps towards the door. “So I'll follow her,” he says. It sounds simple when he says it. Like it’s going to be easy. But the song is finished, he knows he can do this. “Don't try to stop me, Mister Hermes. This is my fault. I have to get her back.”

Hermes moves to stand between him and the door. His voice is low and pleading. “It's not your fault, Orpheus. She chose to go.”

“And I'm choosing to follow her.” It strikes him how stable his voice is, how confident he sounds. Right now he doesn’t feel confident or scared, just determined. If he sings, he can make it through the wall. He can get her back, no matter how far she’s gone. He can still see it, their world that could be.

“Through the Wall?” Hermes sounds incredulous as he runs a hand through his hair. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket, mops his brow.

Orpheus just smiles. “I have my song.”

There is silence, for a moment. Hermes looks Orpheus up and down, assessing him. A thousand emotions seem to play over the old man’s face, the wheels in his mind turning as he thinks on Orpheus’ plan. Orpheus lets him stare, meets his eye unblinking. Finally, Hermes speaks. “Do you believe that will work?” It's not scornful, not tinged with sarcasm.

Orpheus frowns, not sure what he's really saying. “You know it works."

“I didn't mean that.” Hermes waves a hand. “I mean that...if you stop playing, or if you hesitate for even a second, they're going to swarm on you. You need to be completely sure of it, even when you're surrounded on all sides.”

“I'll do it.” Orpheus clutches his guitar strap tight. “Whatever it takes.”

“Alright then.” Hermes fishes in an inside pocket of his suit jacket, pulls something out. “You'll need this.”

“What is it?” Orpheus lets him drop it into his hand. It is a golden key on a long string that pools in his palm.

“They won't let you through the front gate unless you're infected. You have to go around the back.”

Orpheus turns the key over in his hand. “How did you get this?”

Hermes is smiling. “Persephone and I are old friends. Now, are you sure about this?”

“More than anything,” Orpheus breathes.

Hermes steps to the side, unblocking the way to the door. “Good luck, son,” he says. “Come back as soon as you can.”

Orpheus nods and smiles, hoping his gratitude is showing through his face. Then he steps through the door and is gone, down the corridor, down the stairs, out of the doors of Olympus. It is still early – the night has not quite departed from the sky, pink sun not yet dawning over the horizon. The only light, it seems, is the moon reflecting from the silver eyes of the zombies clustered outside. He swings his guitar around and takes a deep breath. He has nothing, just the clothes on his back and the guitar in his hand. The Wall is about a mile’s walk away through a crowded city of the undead. He closes his eyes, finds his heartbeat, and begins to hum.

The melody springs to his lips, high and soft and sweet. He plays a chord, opening the doors with his shoulder and stepping through. Around him are the groans and growls of the living dead, their eyes all turning as one to glare at him. He takes another step, and then another. His hands play the song automatically, just as he has trained them to do these last few weeks. When Orpheus walks into the horde, it is with a song on his lips and a mission in his heart.

They trail after him, the lurching remains of people who were. Their faces have gone slack, the uncanny light in their eyes dulling back to normal tones. They reach for his clothes, not to grab and bite and maul but to feel, to know that he is real. He walks through streets overgrown with moss, past the rusted remnants of cars and fire hydrants, hopping over fallen lamp posts and hastily built barricades. All the while, he never stops playing. He never stops singing.

Before too long they are ahead of him. The Wall, and behind it the towering gates of Hadestown, marked with Hades’ symbol. The golden oval, the black H. He fixes his eyes on it, and not on the writhing mass of humanity that shamble ahead of him. Tourists in tacky t-shirts, police in the remains of uniforms, a fireman still wearing his helmet, men and women in suits, children still holding onto their parents’ hands, people in boiler suits and pyjamas and fancy-dress costumes, every type of person that once was masses before him. Their howls pierce the night, their stench rises to his nostrils and turns his stomach.

And in the midst of it all, Orpheus is singing. Wherever he walks, there is space before and behind him. The zombies turn when they see him, but don’t try and stop him. Instead they just stand in place, swaying to the music he is playing. His fingers are sore, his throat hoarse, but still he sings. Hands brush his shoulders, feet trip his ankles, but still he plays. He stumbles, but does not fall. He walks, and does not stop. The gates are drawing closer and closer.

In the centre of the Wall, in the midst of the living dead, Orpheus stands for a second, staring at the gates ahead. He can feel the rotten breath of the zombies on his neck, their limp touch on his arms. His hands continue to play, but for a second his voice shifts from melody to words.

"Wait for me."

He closes his eyes, and whispers the words like a prayer to the heavens. No, to her. To the image of Eurydice, turning to see him with sunshine in her eyes. He thinks of her, and a grin breaks out over his face.

"I'm coming."

Chapter Text

The first rays of sunlight creep over the sky, but behind grey walls they cannot be seen. Through the barracks, the half-lives are stirring from their rest. None were asleep, for that is a luxury the dead no longer need, but they sat in silence and, for a few hours, were alone with their thoughts. But now the loudspeakers set into every wall crackle, and begin to blare the morning announcement in the deep, smooth voice of Mister Hades.

"Good morning, citizens, and welcome to another day in Hadestown! Citizens are reminded to exit their barracks and report to the meeting hall by the front gates for our morning call before we get to work. Remember, in Hadestown, you are useful. In Hadestown, you have work. In Hadestown, you are free."

-

Just behind the gates, in a small, locked room, a young girl sits and listens to the speakers, leaning on a folding table. Her skin is ashen, tinged with grey and clouded with beads of sweat. She wears a short-sleeved navy boiler suit, with a logo on the right breast pocket. A golden oval, with a black H scribbled in the centre. On her left arm is a wound, two jagged half-moon lines gouged into her flesh. When she arrived, it was crusted with black blood – now it has been clean and sewn up, a small puncture mark just visible above the wound. She drums her fingers on the table, her expression drawn, a haunted look in her silver eyes. The girl's name is Eurydice, and she is waiting.

She had made it halfway through the Wall when she succumbed. Her axe was black with the blood of zombies, her legs burning from running all night. One of them had torn the sleeve from her jacket a few feet back, and while she bashed the axe into the head of a snarling man, a zombie with stringy hair had sunk its teeth into her arm. She had managed to spin around, hack at its neck and kick the head to the floor before too much damage was done, but by that time it was already too late. After that she found it easier to stumble through the Wall. The undead can smell their own.

When she got to the gates, she found them locked, and guarded by three people in Hadestown uniforms. Their eyes glowed silver in the moonlight as she begged them to open the gates. "Please! Look, I can talk, I'm still human. Let me in! Please, let me in!"

Inside the main building, a woman in white wearing a surgical mask had injected her with a golden liquid and put her in this room. That was a few hours ago. In the meantime, she has had nothing but her thoughts to occupy her.

Her body feels different. Her limbs are heavier. Moving is more of a struggle; but when she gripped the chair to move it back, her hands splintered the wood. The hunger that has plagued her for the last few days has dulled into a low ache in her belly. The room she is in smells strange, every scent enhanced – an antiseptic burn at the back of her throat, the fresh-meat smell of uninfected humans, and the rotten stink of the half-lives. The ones like her. She doesn't feel tired, not in the way she used to. When she blinks, her eyes no longer struggle to open. But her limbs are slow and her voice is slightly slurred, and her brain feels like a static fog.

The door opens, interrupting her thoughts. In steps that white-haired, well-dressed man she had seen at Olympus Towers, whose face was on posters and flyers all over the city. He gives her a warm smile, sitting at the other end of the table and dropping some documents before him.

"Welcome!" he says. His grey eyes bore into her – she can do nothing but stare for a second.

"You're Mister Hades," she breathes. It's one thing to see him from afar, quite another to be this close. His presence seems to fill the tiny room. She shrinks back slightly in her seat, her hand rubbing the still-raw wound on her arm.

"The very same," Hades smiles. "Now, there are just a few administrative matters to clear up before we admit you." He shuffles the papers before him. Eurydice swallows, suddenly nervous. He glances up, that smile returning. "The serum we give you, I'm sure you can appreciate, is very expensive to make. We ask that you pay off your debt by working here, in one of the factories or underground, or so on. We'll give you free meals and a space in the barracks. But everybody has to pull their weight."

Eurydice nods. "I've done more for less," she says. Her voice is a hoarse rasp, unfamiliar to her ears.

"That's the spirit." He pulls a pen out of his pocket and turns the papers around. "Now just sign here, and here, and here."

She takes the pen from him. It is an effort to shape her hand into the right way of holding it. "And I can stay here?" she asks. "For as long as I want?"

"For as long as you want," Hades echoes, his gaze unfaltering.

Eurydice looks at the papers. The words on them swim before her eyes, blurring in and out. She blinks a few times, tries to focus, but every time she does the words seem to dance away from her. She can still see the lines, though, and slowly scrawls her name on them.

"There." Hades accepts his pen back, replacing it in his pocket. "Welcome to Hadestown!"

"Thank you." Eurydice is still looking down at the table. When Hades stands, she stands with him, her body echoing his actions.

He gestures forwards. "Now, you've been assigned to barracks 5-D. But you're going to want to head through to the meeting room first, the first one inside the gates. You're just in time for the morning call."

With that, he disappears around a corner, leaving her standing alone in the tiny room. She rubs the bite on her arm, and nods firmly to herself, before stepping outside.

Hadestown is greyer than she'd imagined. She's no fool – she hadn't believed the fields and forests of the posters to be true – but she had hoped for something less joyless. Concrete walls, stone floors, few if any windows. Every corner has a speaker in it, every ceiling has a camera winking down. The only decoration on the walls are the posters she remembers from outside, and some painted black directions. She follows the line for 'meeting room', in the direction Hades took. She doesn't pass anyone as she walks.

Eurydice takes in a breath, tries to focus on the positives. She has a place in the barracks. They are going to feed and shelter her. She will have work to do. There is light here – electric light, the kind that she dimly remembers from before. There are other people. She is still alive. She is not far from Orpheus. Things will get better, now she's here.

She stops at a large hall that she remembers being brought through. It is filled with half-lives, standing in rows, all wearing the Hadestown uniform. Their skin is grey and their eyes are silver, and most have bites visible somewhere on their bodies. They stand up straight, staring ahead towards the large double doors, a thin metal gantry over them. Two of them, the guards with guns that Eurydice recognises from outside, stand in front of the doors, keeping a close watch on the other half-lives.

Eurydice looks around. There are painted letters and numbers on the wall; 1-A, 1-B, 1-C, and so on. She joins the end of line 5-D towards the back. No eyes glance over to her, no voices speak at all. There is nothing but the sound of boots on stone, the crackle and hiss of the speakers. Then she hears the sound of footsteps on metal, and everyone around her straightens up.

Hades stands on the gantry, his hands gripping the rail before him. Behind him is Persephone, wearing a black blouse and skirt, her hair tied up in a bun. She looks out at the half-lives, her eyes scanning them. When they catch a glimpse of Eurydice, they widen slightly, and her hard expression is replaced by something softer.

"Why build the Wall?" Hades' voice booms down from on high.

"To keep us free!" The half-lives respond instantly, chanting the words back at him.

"Why build the Wall?"

This time, Eurydice joins the response. "To keep us free!"

"What keeps us free?" Next to Hades, Persephone's jaw is set. She is silent, unresponsive.

"The Wall!"

Hades clasps his hands together, staring out at the half-lives. His eyes lock briefly onto Eurydice – she meets them, for a second, then looks away.

"My children, we are blessed with the comfort and security we have here in Hadestown." Hades is stood stock-still as he talks, his manner imperious. "Blessed with the ability to work, to create, to have freedom and purpose. Blessed with the Serum that allows us to keep control of our lives even after being bitten. We are the best of humanity, the strongest who will always survive."

Eurydice glances around her. The other half-lives stand at attention, their eyes locked onto Hades. Their expressions are almost reverential, like they are worshipping the man before them. She finds herself smiling, despite herself. Above her, Hades is still speaking, his voice now solemn. "But there are some of us who are not strong. Their blood is weak, resistant to the Golden Serum, turning them grey and endangering our community. It is they who bring their contagion, their poisoned souls, to our sanctuary beyond the Wall. And it is they who will be sent to build the Wall, to keep Hadestown free of their corruption."

His head jerks downwards, meeting the eyes of the half-lives in the front row. "The strong survive behind the Wall!" he bellows.

The response is instantaneous and deafening. "We are the strong!"

"The weak are sent to build the Wall!" Beside Hades, Persephone's eyes close. Eurydice furrows her brow, not understanding what he means.

"We cast them out!" comes the response.

Hades gestures to the two half-lives with guns who stand in front of the entry doors. "Bring today's offering."

The guards move to a door that Eurydice hadn't noticed before. It is secured with a large bolt; one of them pulls it back, while the other trains their gun on the interior. Six half-lives emerge from inside, their hands held high. They are all pale, even for half-lives, the silver light in their eyes bright. They shuffle forwards in a line, slow and tripping over their own feet. One is doubled over as his body is racked with coughs – he collapses to the ground, and one of the guards shoves him back up again. All six are shaking, their eyes wild.

Hades looks on, his expression impassive. "You have identified these traitors in our midst, my children, and I can only thank you. It is your vigilance that keeps our people free of ruin."

One of the guards presses a switch built into the wall. Slowly, creaking, the doors swing open, and the six stand with only the gate between them and the Wall. One of them opens her mouth, trying to plead, but no words come out, just a high whine. The coughing man is leaning against the door, a trembling hand holding him up. The guards level their guns at the group, motioning for them to go forwards. When nobody moves, they start to push. The coughing man collapses in a heap just outside the door, and now Eurydice can hear the distinctive death-rattle of the soon-to-turn. One by one, the others are pushed out to join him, black blood oozing from cuts and scrapes as they hit the concrete. The woman is the last to be shoved through; she is clinging to one of the guards, that dull whine uninterrupted, her hands strong as they prise her off and throw her through. The doors are shut again, but in the window all can see the gates open. And even the thick glass cannot mask the howls and groans of the undead outside.

Eurydice is shaking, frozen to the spot. Her mind races, but when she looks around her, all of the other half-lives are just staring straight ahead, their faces blank. Hades beams, spreading his arms wide. "What keeps us free?"

"The Wall!" The roar from a thousand voices is deafening. Eurydice bellows the response with them, her voice trembling.

"They are gone, and we are strong!" Hades' voice is triumphant. Persephone has turned on her heel, heading for a side door.

"We are strong, so we can work!"

"Now, to your barracks!"

In silence, the half-lives file out in their rows. Eurydice follows the line before her as they exit the main building, heading out. Rows and rows of rectangular huts are before her, each one marked with its number. Beyond are the tall chimneys and belching smoke of the factories, identical brutalist buildings blocking the view of the river. She keeps her head down, follows the people ahead of her until they come to 5-D.

Inside is just a long, bare room. A few folding chairs are scattered here and there, cardboard and wooden boxes with a spare uniforms stacked haphazardly in corners. The half-lives file in, each going to their own spots in the room – sitting at a chair, on the floor, hunched up in a corner. Nobody says a word, or even acknowledges that the others are there. Their eyes are closed, or trained on a speaker built into the wall.

Eurydice finds a spot of floor, sits down. She hugs her knees, eyes closing as her head leans back against the wall. The bite on her arm is throbbing, her head beginning to ache. There is a panic building in her chest, fear boiling in the pit of her stomach, but she bites her lip and stares ahead. She has to calm down, she thinks. Things can't be as bad as this. Maybe she got assigned to the wrong barracks, or this is just a temporary thing, or something.

The scene from before flashes in front of her eyes. The coughing man, the woman who clung to the guard like a lifeline. But she has seen people in that state before. People who denied being bitten until their voices stopped working, who insisted they were fine until they were on the floor hacking up a lung. People like that can't be saved, no matter what you do. They're already turning. And when someone's got that far, you have to get rid of them, to keep everyone else safe. Sacrifice one to save the rest. That's how it's always been.

She opens her eyes, looking blankly ahead. A small line of half-lives are clustered in front of her, staring at something. She stands, looking over their shoulders. One of them kneels on the floor, taking a large scroll of paper from under a floorboard. As Eurydice watches, he unrolls it, holding it carefully as he pins it to the wall. It is a collage, pictures cut from old magazines. Men, women, and children smile out from the world that was, sitting at picnic tables and in parks and behind the wheels of cars. Beautiful landscapes are pasted beside them, vast orange deserts and verdant rainforests and waving golden fields of corn. In the middle is a larger picture, no better than a child's drawing. A farm, with a red and white barn, green grass, a blue sky, the yellow blob of the sun in one corner, farm animals with stick-figure legs dotted around outside.

The half-lives stare at it with something close to regret, reaching out with hesitant fingers to touch the images. Eurydice bites back a laugh, thinking of the world she left behind. The dead city, the glass and concrete and brick, rusted cars and abandoned shops, the white skies even in the midst of summer. She thought people came here to escape the outside world.

The door creaks open. She hears the sound of liquid sloshing in a bottle and turns to see Persephone, standing on the threshold, her suitcase in her left hand and an old Sprite bottle in her right. "Medicine delivery," she says with a smirk.

One of the half-lives closest to the door, a tall, bearded man, gives a chuckle. "Sweet lady, you are a sight for sore eyes," he says. His voice is hoarse, as though he hasn't used it for a while.

Persephone saunters into the room, dragging the suitcase behind her. "Don't look too long, slick," she drawls. "You'll burst into flames.

"What you got for us?" Another half-life, a woman with her dark hair hidden beneath a headscarf the same dull navy of her uniform, staggers forwards.

Opening her suitcase, Persephone smiles, pulling out a few more bottles. "Just a little something-something to dull the pain, strong enough so even you can taste it." She passes one to the woman, who takes a swig, the silver light in her eyes dulling as the moonshine hits her. The other half-lives swarm around, grabbing at the bottles. Eurydice slumps back against the wall, ducking her head. Persephone fishes in her pocket for a moment, before pulling out some crumpled scraps of paper. "And these."

She passes them to the half-life closest to her, and they smooth out the top one. It's a photograph, one that Eurydice recognises from the ancient magazines and newspapers Hestia had around the bar. An airport, in the old days, the terminal bustling with life, planes taking off and setting down, people wandering to and fro, shopping, hugging, walking together. The half-lives take the photos and hesitantly add them to the scroll. More images flash before Eurydice's eyes – a forest from an advert for a nature park, a beach from a travel company, people sitting in model homes and grinning over artistically-placed food.

The woman is looking down at the photo she is holding with wonder. "Is that really what the outside is like?" she asks Persephone.

There is a long moment before Persephone answers. "Yeah," she says with a smile. "Yeah, that's it."

Eurydice is staring at her knees, her forehead resting against them. It takes a second to realise that there is a presence beside her, a warm body sliding down the wall next to her. "Hey," says Persephone, her hand on Eurydice's leg. She can't help noticing how different it looks, Persephone's healthy brown skin next to her ash-coloured flesh.

She doesn't answer, just closes her eyes, takes in a deep breath. Instinctively, she nudges away Persephone's hand. Out of the corner of her eye she can see the bite, festering on her arm, angry and purple and still aching.

"What are you doing here?" Persephone asks. Her voice is soft, her gaze sympathetic. Eurydice recoils from it – she has had enough, she thinks, without Persephone's pity.

"We didn't have enough food. It was better if I left." It sounded so noble when she'd thought about it back at Olympus. Now the words just seem hollow, as empty as she is.

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah. Me too."

Silence falls for a second, to be interrupted by the voice of Hades booming out of the speakers. "Barracks 5-D, report to factory entrance seven for work duty. Barracks 5-D, to factory entrance seven." Eurydice's head jolts up. Around her, the half-lives are shuffling towards the door, forming into a sloppy line. The bearded man takes down the scroll of photographs before kneeling to remove the floorboard.

"I have to go," says Eurydice, still avoiding Persephone's eye.

Persephone nods. She feels in her pocket again and pulls something out. "Take these," she says, handing over a battered silver case, just larger than her palm. Eurydice takes it and flips it open. Inside are six syringes, filled with a golden liquid. "Share them with the others. They give you a dose a day, but…sometimes the official supply isn't enough."

Eurydice thinks back to the coughing man, the desperate woman at the gates. "Thank you." But she looks over the other half-lives and sees the unearthly silver gleam in their eyes, their dull skin. Standing, she hands the case to the bearded man, who nods to her, beckoning forwards some of the others who look in the worst state. He takes out a syringe with a practiced air and injects it into his neck, just above an angry black scar. Then he takes the other five, injecting them into grey flesh just above or below the bite marks on the arms and legs and hands of the other half-lives. Is it her imagination, or is the silver light in their eyes dimming, their skin flushing back from grey to healthy pinks and browns? She remembers when the woman in white injected her, how she couldn't even feel the needle as it slid into her skin.

When the bearded man is finished, Persephone is standing, brushing dust from her skirt. "If you think I can help,” she says. “Find me."

"I will." With that, Eurydice joins the end of the line making their way out into the smoke and noise of Hadestown. She doesn't look back.

-

The voices that crackle from the loudspeakers sing in unison, cheerful and saccharine. Below, the half-lives mine and carry and operate machinery, their faces blank. Still, the three ladies are singing. They never stop.

"Why'd you fight, why don't you stay? Why rebel, and why betray? Why leave Paradise, why turn away? You got all, got all, got all you need. Don't fall, don't fall, don't fall to greed. In here, in here, in here you're free. That is how it's gotta be. So you work hard, and make us proud. And listen to our voice, and make the only choice. Just trust in Hades! Trust in Hades! Trust in Mister Hades now."

-

Hadestown's factories are after the squat rectangles of the barracks – eight large buildings that look like they were built in the time Before, uniform and grey. The half-lives with their navy boiler suits are the only colour in this barren landscape, and even then their skin is the same grey as the concrete. Beyond the factories, there are a few small buildings with yawning black entrances that lead down to the mines, then the gate before the river. There are no guards. There's no need, with the water clogged full of decaying, bloated zombies just under the surface, ready to grab the foolhardy traveller and drag them to the depths.

As they reach the doors of one of Hades' factories, the half-lives who stand there with clean clothes and awareness in their eyes bark orders at Eurydice's group, assigning tasks at random. Her job is to operate the machinery to pour metal into moulds that will become bullets, somewhere down the line. Her first instinct is to stop and stare – she hasn't seen this many bullets in a long time, not since the first few years after Day Zero. But then one of the others slaps her over the head and orders her to get on the line, and she obeys as quickly as she can.

Work in the mines is long and tough. Eurydice has spent her life on the road, doing whatever she can to get by, but she knows she hasn't worked this hard before, not even in the leanest winters. It takes all of her strength to work the aged equipment, yet Eurydice doesn't feel herself getting tired the way she should. She glances over at the large clock that dominates the factory floor – she has been here for hours already but despite the fact that she has been on her feet all that time, her body does not ache to sit. True, she is slower than she should be, but she does not tire. She can barely feel the warmth of the molten metal next to her skin. Instead, there is just a strange numbness, a feeling defined by the absence of feeling. She doesn't think about it, keeps to her work. There will be time for thinking later.

One hour rolls into the next, and then the next. Eurydice's stomach growls as she forces her body to continue. Occasionally the guards walk the upper gantry around the factory floor, barking orders down in the slow and slurring voice that she has already grown used to. There is no sign of Hades, or Persephone, or anyone living.

She can hear them, though. Their voices, loud over the clunk and whine and rattle of machinery all around her. Hades' canned announcements sound as smooth as his voice on her radio back at Olympus. The Fates sing with the same cheer. Persephone's voice, though, the rare time her voice is heard, just sounds dull and flat, blatantly reading from a script. All of their messages are the same. Trust Hades, trust Hadestown, trust nobody else.

Then, after the tenth hour closes, an alarm blares, and the half-lives stand back from their workstations. She does so too, clicking her neck and stretching. Her arms are sore, but no more than they would have been from lifting a few heavy boxes. Her stomach growls again, and she folds her arms over it. Her fellow workers are standing idle, their arms by their sides, staring up as they wait for some unknown signal.

She looks at the man next to her, forces a smile. "Hey," she says, quiet but clear. He rolls his shoulders, glances down at the ground. "Hello?" she tries again. His hand drums against his thigh, giving no indication that he has heard her.

Frowning, she tries again with the woman on the other side. The woman is pinning up her hair again under a cap, her entire being focused on these small, methodical movements. "Hey there," the young girl says, but the woman just curls a strand of hair around her finger, pins it neatly in place.

The young girl closes her eyes, rubbing her temples. "Why won't anybody talk to me?" she says, more to herself than anybody else.

"They don't remember how." She turns her head at the voice. Three ladies dressed in grey stand behind her, their hair hidden behind identical turbans, their mouths twisted into identical smirks. She has never met them, but she's seen posters of the Fates.

Her voice falters. "What do you mean?"

The lady in the middle steps forward, puts a hand on the young girl's shoulder and whispers to her, conspiratorially. "They're half-lives. They don't remember small-talk. They don't remember much outside these walls."

Glancing around her, the young girl shudders. "That's horrible." The other half-lives seem to be ignoring her conversation, heading off to the near corner of the factory. Some instinct in her is spurring her to join them, but she forces her legs to be still, fixes the Fate ahead of her with a determined grimace.

The lady to her right chuckles. "Can you?"

"Of course!" the young girl retorts. "I remember..." She casts her mind back, scrambling for a memory she can tell them.

"What was it like out there? Where did you live?" The lady to the left draws closer to the young girl until the trio surrounds her, her back to the machinery.

The young girl opens her mouth to answer, but finds no easy response. She shakes her head as if to clear her thoughts, searches her memories. An image springs to her – a barn, red wood crossed with white, green fields with animals roaming around. She casts her mind back further, but that is all she can see; that, then the unerring grey concrete of Hadestown. "I lived...on a farm?"

"That's the picture in the barracks, sweetie." The middle Fate strokes her shoulders, maternally.

"No, I remember!" The young girl's voice is frantic as she struggles to think. She can see a field of corn, smiling people sitting around a kitchen table, a lush green forest. Her memories, she is sure of it. Memories from the outside.

"What's your name?"

The question cuts deep into the young girl's mind. Persephone? No, that's the lady from before. Fate? H…something beginning with H? Other words swim up into her brain, but nothing sticks. "My name, it's..." she says, her voice trailing. "It's..."

"You see."

The Fate in the middle lets go of her shoulders. The trio steps back, allowing the young girl to take a shaky pace forwards, fall to her knees. "It's the infection," the middle Fate says. "It eats away your memories."

"But you don't need your mind! Just control. You're here to work, not talk."

The young girl's stomach gives another angry growl. "I know my name," she says.

"Then what is it?"

"Careful now."

"Best get going, before somebody sees."

Her breath coming in panicked gasps, the young girl grabs out for the nearest Fate – they take a smooth step back in unison, smirking at her. She shakes her head, holding on to the things she can remember. The grey walls, the grey floors, the voice promising a better life. "But this is Hadestown," she says desperately. "It's like the world that was. There's light here, and food."

The Fates click their tongues. "Oh, that part's true enough," one says.

"But you don't seem to have considered." Their eyes bore into her, their smiles unwavering.

"What do zombies eat?"

The young girl closes her eyes. When she opens them, the three ladies are gone, and the cluster of half-lives to her right loom. "Oh God," she whispers, but her feet are already propelling her to join her brethren in the corner. She can feel it now; the hunger, the dull ache that has plagued her for as long as she can remember. The half-lives stand around a set of double doors, their arms grabbing out ahead of them, their faces slack with longing. As she reaches them, the doors slide open, and something is pushed through.

No, not something. Someone.

Multiple someones – people, about six or seven of them, in tattered clothing with bruised faces and arms, looking around each other at the mass of half-lives that surround them. Their skin is vibrant and healthy, shades of pink and brown contrasting with the grey hands that lunge towards them. They look around, frantic, eyes scanning around for a break in the crowd, an escape route, something they can use. Some part of her recognises that look, has seen it in herself, but she doesn’t remember when or how she felt. All she can feel is the hunger.

The young girl finds herself stepping forward with the crowd, her arms reaching out. She can feel her stomach churning, her mouth beginning to water. Her heightened senses can smell the freshness of their skin, the blood that courses through their veins. A part of her mind is screaming, yelling at her to turn back, but her feet are still shuffling forwards, her arms grasping forwards for a chunk of hair, of flesh, of blood, anything. All around her she can hear the groans and moans of the half-dead; distantly, she realises that her own voice has joined them.

A yell sounds, and one of the mortals falls under the crush. She can smell the blood in the air, hear the sickening sound of flesh tearing from flesh. There is a surge forwards – she moves instinctively, her conscious mind giving way to the impulses that govern her body. Seven humans. Not enough for all. She will have to get in fast, or risk having nothing. The hunger surges within her. She has to eat. She has to feed.

Deep within, a part of herself is numb with horror. No matter what she went through, no matter what she lost, she never thought she’d reach this point. But the crowd moves forwards and she is on her knees, holding down a struggling young man with fear in his eyes, blood already leaking over his face. He begs her to stop, to spare him. To show mercy.

But Eurydice is a hungry young girl.

-

"Attention, citizens. It is your duty to be ever-alert and vigilant. Traitors lurk within our ranks, my children, ready to poison us from within. They are outsiders, who made their way to Hadestown through tricks and traps, who look to subvert you from your true callings. They are not to be trusted. Neither are the weak, those among us whose blood is not strong enough to resist the infection. You must report these traitors to me, or to any of the diligent men and women who guard our fair compound. A healthy workforce is a productive workforce, and a productive workforce is a free workforce. And in Hadestown, we are always free."

-

The klaxon sounds at the end of the day. The workers stand still at their stations, their silver eyes glowing in the darkness. Already the lights on the factory floor have shut off, and the half-lives wait their turn to file out of the doors.

She is standing among them, in her place at the back of the factory, her head hanging down, eyes staring blankly at her scuffed boots. The pain in her arm has dulled to a low ache, and she rubs the bite unconsciously as she waits for her row to leave. Her shoulders are slumped. She is silent.

A flicker of movement catches in the corner of her eye – a side door squeaks open and shuts, slowly. A figure has entered, low to the ground. A young man in a denim jacket, the edges torn and fraying, one sleeve missing. There is something strapped to his back, but she can’t see it from here. His skin is streaked with dirt and black blood, but he seems to be unhurt. He flattens himself against the wall, out of sight of the cameras, his eyes sweeping the room. When he glances her way, she looks down instinctively, turning back to her workstation.

“Eurydice!” His voice rings out, high and clear. She doesn’t turn, though some around her do. The factory is about half-empty, the half-lives filing slowly and methodically out of the door. Her feet itch to join them, but it’s not her turn yet.

“Eurydice?” The voice is closer now – when she looks, he’s at her side, looking directly at her. She shakes her head, confusing spiking her brow.

He frowns, pulling something over his shoulder. Now she can see it, but she can’t identify it; something large and round and wooden, a hole in the centre, held together with tape and covered in small wires. He places one hand at its centre, the other on the flat.

And when he speaks, his words are a song. “Eurydice, Eurydice, your name is like a melody,” he sings softly, playing a chord. He sings it again, the music swelling around the pair. His finger dance up and down the fretboard, his eyes closing as his voice soars over the notes.

"La, la la la, la la la…" He sings a wordless refrain that seems to echo deep inside her, the music uncoiling from the centre of her chest and rising through her body. The young girl stares at the boy; they are all staring at him, all of the half-lives that can hear, a misty look in their silver eyes. The music is filling her head, drowning out the constant thoughts that scrape away at her mind – work, hunger, work, pain, work, watch, work. For a moment, everything is soft. She swears that she can feel a breeze on her feverish skin, smell the cloying scent of flowers on the air.

She blinks, and looks at the boy, this time really seeing him. His scruffy hair, his torn jeans. The way his forehead crinkles as he glances over at her. The high, lilting sound of his voice, his grin as he stood with her in the room back at Olympus, laughing as they danced to Hermes’ music together, twirling her around then pulling her close as their lips met in a soft kiss.

Eurydice shakes her head slowly. “Orpheus?” Her voice is low, slurred. Images are rushing into her head – coming to Olympus Towers, talking to Orpheus in the bar, Persephone sauntering in the door, dancing by the firelight…everything she had forgotten, rushing back.

“It's me!” He stops playing, taking her arms and beaming. She shrinks back at his touch, too-strong on her sensitive skin. He doesn’t react, doesn’t seem to notice the thin layer of sweat that coats her skin, the grey pallor of her flesh. As she draws away, his touch is soft, his voice kind. “I'm here. It's okay, I'm here.”

“But...did you come through the Wall?” He doesn’t seem to have a scratch on him. There’s blood streaked on the back of his jacket, but it’s old blood, not his. His skin is clean; the half-moon bites on her arm are black and purple, obvious against grey flesh.

“Yes,” says Orpheus. “I sang my song to them. They didn't touch me, see?” He shows her his bare arm, the unblemished skin.

Eurydice smiles, though tears blur her vision. “Of course you did.”

He is grinning, gently pulling her towards the side door. “Come on. Let's go back home.”

“Orpheus...” She doesn't move.

Concern creeps onto his face. “What's wrong?” His hands slip down from her shoulders to her hands, fingers lacing between hers.

Red stains up to the wrist, the taste of copper in her mouth, shoving the others away as she rips and tears and bites-

“I can't.” Her voice is unnaturally loud in the quiet room. She is aware of the other half-lives crowding around them, their dull eyes staring straight at the pair. Now the music has stopped, that familiar blankness has fallen over their faces.

Orpheus doesn’t seem to notice. He is just staring at her, crestfallen. “Why not?”

Her words come out as a whisper. “You don't know what I've done.”

“You know what we do to trespassers around here, son?”

The voice booms down from on high. On the gantry above them, Hades stands scowling, flanked by two of his guards. He wears a long leather coat, his knuckles white as he grips the railing.

“Mister Hades!” Orpheus drops her hand, running it through his hair. Panic flashes across his face, and he slides the guitar onto his back.

“I walk out onto the floor and what do I find?” Hades raises his hands, gesturing around him. Eurydice is frozen to the spot. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see the other half-lives advancing in a tight circle around them. “A worker idling and a young man I've never seen before.”

Orpheus’ voice shakes, but he stands firm. “I came for Eurydice.”

Hades scoffs. “What is this, your girlfriend? She's mine now, son.”

“That's not true!”

“Oh? You don't see that bite on her arm there?” Eurydice covers it with her hand, taking a shaky breath in. Orpheus is staring at her, a pleading expression on his face. “She made a deal to save her skin, same as every soul under my roof. She came here of her own free will. But you? Sneaking in the back door like a spy?”

There is the sound of footsteps on the gantry. Persephone appears through a side door, marching towards her husband. “Hades, stop,” she says.

Hades turns to her, raising a hand. “Stay out of this.”

Persephone glances down to the floor. Her eyes meet Eurydice’s, then flash across to Orpheus. “I know him,” she says. “He's Hermes' boy.”

“I said, out!” Hades’ voice is deafening, echoing in the silent factory. Persephone blinks. Her hands clench into fists at her side, and her jaw tightens. Then the tension seems to drain from her body. She bows her head, disappearing back through the door.

Hades beams down at them. “One last chance, boy. You walk away, and I forget this ever happened.”

Orpheus glances at Eurydice. His hands shake as he reaches out to her and entwines their fingers again. When he looks back to Hades, it is with a determined glare. “I'm not going back without her!”

“How sweet. That and a dollar will get you...well, not much, these days.” Hades spreads his arms wide. “My children?”

The half-lives surround them, a crush of bodies blocking all exist. Orpheus' palm, slick with sweat, slips from her grasp. Eurydice's hand twitches for an axe that no longer hangs on her back, old fighting instincts flooding her mind. But when the first grey hands reach towards him, she just stands there, frozen and mute. When they tear at his clothes, she takes a step back, her entire body shaking. When the first blow hits, she falls to her knees, her eyes squeezed shut. She can still hear it. The unmistakable thud of fist on skin. The cries from her lover’s lips, the snatched snippets of his protests. She can smell the blood in the air. Hot tears slide down her cheeks. Why can’t she move?

Hades’ voice swims through her mind, loud and strong over the blows. “A word of advice. Your girlfriend, she's a half-life now. Even if you left with her, without the serum she'd be gone in a day. And as soon as you're out of sight, she'll forget you again.”

The young girl opens her eyes. Her brothers and sisters are before her, holding a young man between them. She knows him, she can feel it, but his name has slipped from her memory. He kneels between two half-lives with a dazed expression and a bruised and purple face. Blood trickles down from a cut on his forehead – she smells its familiar aroma, and her mouth waters. His head hangs low. The young girl is shaking, her arms wrapped around herself. She is trying to hold onto his face, the snatch of song that still echoes in her ears. But she cannot catch the melody. The young man's name is gone. It's just her, kneeling on the cold concrete, in this place where she has always been. In Hadestown, her home.

Dimly, she is aware of the young man's chin jerking up – he coughs, crimson blood splattering the concrete before him. His lips twitch as he struggles to speak, but nothing comes out. Silence falls on the factory floor, broken only by Hades' low chuckle.

“Take this young lover to the pen.”

Chapter Text

Another day dawns, the sky cold and white. Once more the workers of Hadestown struggle to their feet and assemble in lines before their lord, before shuffling into the factories and mines. The speakers that line every wall crackle with the morning announcements, Hades' sonorous voice resounding over the noise of the machinery.

"Good morning, citizens. The world outside is a cruel one, but here in Hadestown we are free. Nevertheless, we must remain strong against those who would take our freedom from us. Any one of your fellow workers could light the spark that burns down our sanctuary. This is your warning. In Hadestown, as in the rest of this rotten world, there are only two people who you can trust. Yourself, and Mister Hades."

-

In a small room to the side of the main factory, a poor boy is sitting with his head in his hands, his shoulders slumped. His eyes are bloodshot and his skin is pale, though not as pale as the people who work outside. Purple bruises have bloomed across his ribs, over the side of his face and down his arms. Dried blood is crusted across his features, and there is a wide cut across his forehead. A strong bolt cages him into a room with barely enough space to stretch his arms out, the walls grey concrete. The only furniture is a cold steel bench, bolted to the wall. His guitar lies on the ground, abandoned.

Orpheus sits alone inside his prison, waiting for his world to end.

There is a small window in the steel door and if he looks up, he can see her. Eurydice, working the machinery with a dead-eyed stare, her eyes silver and her skin grey. Somehow, he'd thought that when he came for her, she would have made it through the Wall untouched, ready to come home with him. Or if not, then he could sing the infection from her veins, watch as her eyes darkened to safe, comfortable brown.

But as the workers had beaten him he had been watching her face. He had watched her forget him, though the hot tears still slid down her cheeks. And now he sits on death row, wondering how Hades will take his revenge.

His mouth is dry, his belly empty. Nobody has come to the window of his cell since the bolt slid shut. One hour blurred into the next; he slept, maybe, with his cheek to the cold steel bench, only to awaken as the people poured into the factory ready for work. None of them glanced his way. He remembers walking the halls of Olympus Towers, nodding and smiling and raising a hand to greet the people who live there. But here in Hadestown, nobody will meet his eye.

There is a sound like white noise screeching in his ears. He wants to hum, to sing, to do something to quiet down the silent screaming in his head, but his mouth does not open. It used to be the only thing that would help him through a meltdown, once upon a time – singing and playing guitar with Mister Hermes, learning songs from the old world together or just making up tunes. But his guitar is lying on the floor, cracking and splintering under the hasty layers of duct tape, and he can't get up to reach it. His body is locked into this position, the picture of endless despair.

"Why so down?" A voice cuts across his thoughts; a high, cruel voice, and instantly recognisable. Hermes didn't like him listening to the Hadestown broadcasts, but he can still recognise a Fate when he hears her. He glances up – there they stand at the window, three ladies in identical grey dresses, wearing identical smirks.

"Go away." He says it almost under his breath, his voice cracking from a dry throat.

"Was that your whole plan?" The Fates don't move. One of them leans in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Just march up to a man like Hades and tell him to let your girlfriend go free?"

He feels a stab of shame. "Go away." Her words bounce around his brain. Was that your whole plan? Yes, yes it was, he was so certain that it would work and now look where he is.

Another Fate taps her hand against the door. "Even if he did, it would have been pointless. The girl's infected, now. Did you really think you could fight the plague with a song?"

"Yes." It's a reflexive answer, borne from the years of doubters questioning him in Hestia's bar, a stubborn syllable escaping his lips. An image flashes into his head – him running across the factory floor, calling Eurydice's name, but she turns away from him. When he played his song, she remembered, but only for a moment. Still, the nagging voice of hope whispers in his ear. She remembered. Despite everything, she remembered.

The first Fate tuts, giving him a look both maternal and condescending. "Aren't you an optimist?"

"Well, just relax, get comfortable. You might as well." Her sister's voice is lilting, the kind of siren-song that tempted men to hurl themselves into the ocean.

The third Fate's dark eyes bore into Orpheus. "It'll all be over soon."

He lifts his head from his hands and meets her eye. "What do you mean?" he asks, though a part of him already knows. That Wall outside just keeps growing, whether the hordes have passed through or not. He's heard rumours for decades about how that happens, people gone missing from their beds and spotted across the river, grey and silver and bloodstained.

The first Fate laughs. "You'll find out, soon enough. After all, who are you to defy a man as powerful as Hades?"

"Men like that don't take kindly to those who work against them." The second Fate raises her hand to her throat and draws an elegant line across. Orpheus draws back, shuddering.

"Something to think about," says the third Fate, and as quickly as they appeared the trio are gone, leaving behind only the sound of heels clicking on stone and the endless whine and clunk of the factory.

Orpheus' hands are trembling. He closes them into fists, then opens them again. When he breathes, it is in small, panicked gasps. Instinctively, his hand casts about for his guitar – that has always helped him focus, whenever he has been close to a meltdown. It is lying where he left it, abandoned and small on the cell's floor. He doesn't move towards it. Instead, he shuts his eyes, resting his head against the concrete behind him. He tries to breathe slowly, in-and-out the way Mister Hermes always told him to. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes; he wipes them away, trying not to think.

There is a sound at the cell door. He opens his eyes. One of the workers is standing there, the one responsible for Orpheus' bruised ribs. He is a tall man, bearded, and he stares into the cell with the same blank expression that all the people outside wear.

Still, when he speaks, his voice is gentle. "Hey, you," he hisses, glancing around behind him. "How did you do that before? With the music?"

Orpheus turns his head to the side. "It doesn't matter," he says, almost to himself. The memory of the Fates plays over again in his mind – her smirk as she raised a hand to her throat, signalling his death. The camera in the corner of the cell watches him, its red eye blinking. "It's over."

"Over?" The worker leans in closer to the door. Orpheus doesn't move, just sits with his knees tight to his chest, his forehead resting on them. The worker shakes his head, urgency in his eyes. "No, no. Look, I don’t know how long I’ve been here. As far as I know, my entire life. All I can remember is these walls. It’s gone now, but when you were playing before, I remembered my name. I saw my mother’s face. You can't stop now."

Brown eyes fogging to silver, the anguish on Eurydice's face slipping into nothingness, her face turning away from him as he bleeds. "It doesn't matter," Orpheus says. "I'll be gone by the morning." He doesn't understand why he is still here. Maybe Hades is cooking up a special punishment for the boy who dared undermine him. Maybe it isn't feeding time yet.

The worker gives a low chuckle. "If Mister Hades sees me not working, I'll be sent to build the Wall in a heartbeat. But I'd give anything to hear that song one more time."

Orpheus is about to say something when another worker appears at the window, a small woman who puts her hand on the bearded man's shoulder. "You have to work," she slurs, her voice dull.

The bearded man turns back to her. "You heard it too. Tell him."

She repeats herself, her voice slower. "You have to…" Her head shakes. "I…" Orpheus can see something in her eyes, a spark of humanity, and for a second a look of pure terror flashes across her face.

He stands, moving over to the window, one hand laid on the cold steel of the door. "You really don’t remember, do you?" he asks. The workers share a glance. Orpheus hasn't seen this expression on anyone else before, the look of complete hopelessness. He remembers the people who drifted through Olympus, with nothing but the clothes on their back and the memories stored within. They had the hope of the next settlement, the promise of work on the horizon, another place where maybe their luck would change. But behind these gates, beyond the Wall, every person is an island of woe.

Orpheus takes in a breath, his voice urgent but low. "It doesn’t have to be like this, you know," he says. "You’ve got a little time left. You shouldn’t have to spend it like this."

The bearded worker blinks slowly. "What else can we do? There’s nothing out there."

"And Mister Hades," his comrade supplies. "Only he has the Serum."

"And that’s not right!" It comes out loud, a sudden shout. Orpheus can see the workers closest to the cell turn their heads, eyes boring into him. His instinct is to keep his voice down, but what has he left to lose? Instead he cries over the roar of the machines. "If I had something like that, I’d be sharing it with the world. I’d be going around every settlement, showing them how to make it, but he’s sitting on it! So he can control you."

Conveyer belts shudder to a halt. The thumping of the machinery stops. The closest workers have drifted to the cell window, confusion furrowing their brows. There is a mad gleam in the young poet's eye, lost confidence creeping back into his tone. Nobody listened when he spoke like this before. Nobody but Mister Hermes, then Eurydice. But now he has a captive audience and he is drunk on their attention. "Hades has built all of this, when he could have been building shelters, or hospitals! But he’s building cars. He’s holding onto the world that was and not looking around him to see what is. He lets Persephone out once a year so she can be seen to make a difference, but it’s not changing anything!"

He speaks only over the sound of shuffling feet. Faces follow other faces, crowding around the cell door, but Orpheus barely sees them. He is lost in the speech, in the vision of the world that could be that he has been seeking so long, in the pain and the sorrow and the injustice in the world around him.

The poet paces the little cell, his voice strained from shouting. "And look around at all of you. There’s so many of you, and one of him. Hades, he’s just one man. The people who work for him, they’re just people." Orpheus spreads his arms wide, a laugh escaping his lips. "We’re all just people! We shouldn’t be working for anyone, we should be working together!" His eyes flicker to the bearded worker at the front of the crowd. "He made you hurt me. Did you want to do that? No. Then why did you? You’re stronger than him, you’re a threat. That’s why he wants to keep you under his thumb. But he can’t make you do anything."

Orpheus pauses for a second. A sea of faces stares back through the window. His eyes scan them for a glimpse of Eurydice – he can't see her, but somehow he can sense that she's there. Every mouth bears a smile, every eye determination, every heart a memory of the world they thought they would never see again.

When the bearded man speaks, he speaks for them all. "We’re with you." His voice is a bass grumble. Behind him, other workers take up the call, echoing his words. "We're with you!"

A woman's voice bellows from the back. "He is the weak, we are the strong!" It filters forward through a hundred mouths, growing stronger with each repetition. "He is the weak! We are the strong!"

Orpheus gives them a ragged grin. "He is the one and you are the many. He is the king, but you are the people. And a king should serve his people, not subjugate them."

He blinks, taking in a breath. The memory of the Wall flashes into his head, the zombies that surrounded him. He looks across at all of these people and doesn't see the undead. He sees humans, struggling and fighting, waiting for so long just to hear a word of hope. His heart starts to beat faster, his hands clenched into a ball to stop them shaking. He doesn't know how to help these people. He barely knows how to help himself. But they will know the answers.

Stepping back to the door, he speaks to the bearded man directly. "Tell me what to do."

From outside, there is the distinctive clunk of a bolt being opened, the scraping of metal on metal. The door swings open, and suddenly there is nothing but air between him and the people.

"You get out here," says the bearded worker. "And you sing."

Orpheus picks up his guitar, and takes a slow step out of the cell. He doesn't play the Song, not at first. His hands wants to drift to those familiar chords, but the voice that floats down from his head to sing the wordless melody doesn't come. Instead he hums, then sings the words to old songs he knows. Things Mister Hermes taught him, then others that he made up, half-remembered lullabies and love songs. People outside sing snatches of a chorus, hum a melody that has lain abandoned in their brains for years. He walks out to the centre of the room, the people parting like an ocean to circle around him, all thoughts of work abandoned.

The Song forms automatically under his hands. It is an instinct now, to play it. He remembers before, Eurydice's eyes darkening from silver to brown as recognition dawned on her face. The way the workers clustered, not out of malice like they would later, but with longing and curiosity. The way she said his name. And there she is, Eurydice, pushing to the front of the crowd, her dark brown eyes glittering with tears. She sings his melody in a faltering tone, and his voice lifts to join her.

"La, la la la, la la la…"

-

"Here in Hadestown, we are the only safe settlement for miles around. Why are we safe? Why are we free? We have the Wall, my children. We have a river on three sides of our compound, and the Wall shielding us from the anarchists and traitors who would come from the north to shake our foundations. We manufacture guns, and bullets - the only settlement on this coast to still have a steady supply. We have the Serum, which keeps the infection at bay. And we have you, the half-lives who are the beating heart of Hadestown. Why would you need to go anywhere else? In Hadestown, we have everything."

-

Persephone stands outside Mister Hades' office, rage burning deep inside her. She knows what she has to do. Orpheus is out there somewhere, rotting in a cell, and his girl is working herself to a final death. She is the only person Hades might listen to. But still she stands outside the door.

Her hair is coming loose from its neat bun. There is dirt around the hem of her skirt. She's spent the morning going back and forth between the workshops, trying to scrounge up even a single vial of Hades' Golden Serum. But, as usual, she has found nothing. The only time she gets to hold it is when she goes out to the other settlements, and Hades gives her a dose just to be safe. Not that she's ever in any danger of turning.

She clears her throat, takes a deep breath in, and knocks three times on the door. It doesn't have a nameplate, just the Hadestown logo on a brass oval. She waits a second, staring in at the frosted glass, then shakes her head and grasps for the door handle.

It opens at her touch. Inside is Hades, flanked by filing cabinets filled with reports from the factories, from the mines and workshops and labs. He sits behind a desk, a pair of silver spectacles perched at the end of his nose. He is in shirtsleeves and a red waistcoat, a small splash of colour in the dark room. Still, this corner of Hadestown is better looking than the rest. The walls are panelled oak, lined with bookshelves. A painting of him adorns the back wall, standing before Hadestown’s gates with Persephone on his arm. He doesn't look up.

Persephone closes the door. "Hades."

Now he glances at her, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, it's you," he says, his gaze flicking back to the paper before him. "What are you doing in here?"

"I need to talk to you." She takes a step forward, pulling back a chair from in front of his desk, but she doesn't sit. Instead, she just folds her arms, staring at him.

He doesn't even meet her eye. "Can't it wait?"

"No."

Sighing, Hades removes his glasses and places them on the desk. He slicks back his hair, clicks his jaw, then squints back at his wife. "What's this about?" His voice is deep with suspicion.

She taps her fingers against her arm. "You didn’t need to do that out there." Her voice is measured, a hint of decorum holding back an ocean of feelings. Her mind is thick with memories. She thinks of Orpheus, about nine years old, grabbing her hand and showing her his collections of song books, chattering about the new lyrics he'd written. His childish grin fades into the young poet's face falling as his eyes take in the bite on Eurydice's arm, despair clouding hope.

"Oh?" Hades growls. "And what do you care?"

Persephone hesitates for a second. How can she explain to him that she has basically become this boy's aunt? Hades was never there, never wanted to follow her out into the world. He hasn't spoken about anything but business in years. There are very few mortals left within Hadestown's walls, and she doesn't think he talks to any of them.

Hades just chuckles, leaning back in his chair. "Oh, I see. All that time in the settlement…" He lets his voice trail off. "I suppose you two have become…friends?"

A hot bolt of rage strikes the pit of her stomach. Seeing her expression, Hades smirks. "Isn’t he a bit young for you?"

Thud. Persephone's fist strikes the desk, knuckles white, the impact jolting up her arm. She takes a shaky breath in – the sound surprised even her. "Don’t you dare accuse me, Hades," she says through gritted teeth. "I watched that boy grow up. He doesn't deserve to be treated this way. And believe it or not, I'm actually working when I go out there. I'm trying to help people."

Hades glances back to his report. "Of course."

He's dismissing her, she knows it. That's her cue to slink away into the shadows again, and get out of his way. She folds her arms again, looking down at her husband with disgust. "If you let me stay out there longer, help people-"

“It's an unnecessary risk.” He isn’t even looking at her. He’s just glancing through his report, eyes skimming the text without even reading it. This is it, surely, the point where she walks away, where she gives up on him the way she always has. She can feel that instinct, her feet itching to turn on her heel and walk out.

But Persephone doesn’t move an inch. “Everyone else takes that risk. That boy walked through the Wall, Hades, without a scratch on him. You saw what he did out there!”

“I said, no.”

“And I said yes.”

Now, he’s looking at her. His eyes are ice. There’s a smile on his face, but it’s humourless, dangerous. She’s seen that smile before – it’s the smile he wears as the front gates creak open to let out the undesirables, as he watches his half-lives tear into the flesh of the spies and traitors that, she’s reasonably sure, just came to their gates hoping for a better life. Involuntarily, she takes a step back.

“It's like that?” He raises an eyebrow. His voice is coarse and gravelly.

She looks him straight in the eye. “Yes.”

He pushes himself back from his desk and stands. Persephone hates the height that he has on her, the fact that she will always be looking up to him. He puts his hands on her shoulders, the touch too rough. “Everything I've done here, I have done for you. To keep you safe.”

“Well, what if I don't want to be safe?” Persephone shrugs him off her. “Look at that boy! He risked everything! His life, his humanity, just to come here and get her back. He's a boy, Hades, madly in love with that girl. That's all this is. And you want to infect him? Use him to build the Wall, feed him to them? You make me sick.”

Hades scrubs his hand over his face. “What would you have me do? Open the gates, let them all come crashing in? The riffraff too weak to clear the Wall, the zombies?” His eyes bore into her soul, deep as a thundercloud. “Shall I give my throne to this lovesick puppy?”

“You should give him a chance.” He doesn’t understand, of course he doesn’t. She remembers before the Wall, before the zombies and the half-lives and the constant fear. She remembers a Hades who cared about more than what he owned, a Hades who courted her with soft words and whispered promises, not goods and riches. All the world has given up on the idea of owning things other than the necessities, and here he is. He has a car. He has imported liquor. He has a penthouse suite and clean, pressed clothes. He is a man standing alone on top of the world, and Persephone almost pities him for the things that he lacks. “Have you heard him sing?”

“Have I-what is this nonsense?”

“He's in love. He's desperate. He wants a better future.” She closes her eyes and for a moment she’s there, standing in the grass on her mother’s farm, a soft hand stroking her cheek in the dying sunlight. “I knew a man like that once. I loved him, for a long time. He was my sun, my light, my world. What happened to him?”

Hades stares at her. The workers think he’s so mysterious, but she can read him better than even he can. She can see the flash of fear in his eyes, the longing that seeps into his expression – only to be crushed when he sets his jaw firm, glares down at her. “What do you care about this boy? You're safe here. You have everything you could ever want here.”

Persephone speaks softly, barely above a whisper. “I never wanted this.” She waves a hand around the room. “Imported food, electricity, luxuries. I want the world to breathe again.”

She doesn’t look at him, and he says nothing. There are a thousand words in the air between them, arguments and apologies long past, dulled into frost. Persephone holds her wrist, strokes the smooth skin. Thinks about Eurydice, out there working, the bite on her arm angry and purple. Orpheus, sitting in a cell, bruised and battered no doubt.

“He doesn't care about your empire, Hades,” she says. “Just the girl.”

Hades opens his mouth, then closes it. In the sudden silence, they can both hear something in the distance. Not the roar and whine of the factories, not the scraping of pickaxe on stone. The sound of distant singing.

“What's that noise?”

-

"The strength of Hadestown is the strength of its leader. I, Mister Hades, have stood against the hordes for the last twenty years. Through sweat and blood and an iron will, I have kept our community together. I have kept us strong! Trust in me. Trust in Hades. I am your strength."

-

All of the factories are silent. No pickaxes ring, no hammers fall. Instead the people are gathered in the main hall, clustered around the young poet as he plays for them. His voice is growing husky, but his face hurts from grinning. His lover is behind him, her arms around his shoulders. He is surrounded by people, laughing and clapping and singing and hugging each other. People who have worked beside each other for countless monotonous days recognise for the first time the faces of brothers, sisters, lovers, parents. Names are shouted across the room, snatches of memory – sometimes there is an answering call, sometimes there is not. Tears that have been buried deep within grey skin bubble up and spill out of silver eyes.

And in the midst of it all, Orpheus is playing harder than he ever has. He is playing them back to life, he thinks. Every room he has entered, every warehouse and mine and factory, has been deafened by the sounds of machines until he has come through the door, his followers trailing behind him. They picked up the melody quickly, passing it back through their ranks. They are still singing it, every one of them, with full voice. Hadestown stands still, as a lover’s melody rings out over the concrete.

He is swept away with the music, carried aloft on its wings, and so he doesn’t notice the sound of boots on the metal gantry. Not until the voice of Hades booms down from the heavens.

“What’s going on?”

Orpheus’ hands stop playing. The voices around him fall to silence. Hades stands on the gantry, murder in his eyes, scanning the faces of the crowd. Persephone stands a pace behind him, a small smile playing on her lips.

The poet takes a step forwards, feeling Eurydice move with him. He grins up at Hades with a bravado he doesn’t quite feel. “You can’t get rid of me that easy.”

The ensuing silence is broken only by a low chuckle. “You’ve got some nerve, boy!” he bellows. His hands clutch the metal rail – he seems to be expecting a response from the crowd, but none comes. They just stand, silver eyes fixed on Orpheus.

“I told you,” says the boy. “I’m going to leave this place, and I’m not leaving without her. Without all of them.”

Hades clicks his jaw. “Is that all you have to offer, boy? A song, a hope, and a prayer?”

“A song, yes.” Orpheus speaks softly. That cocky grin is gone, replaced by a more sincere smile. “A prayer, maybe. But hope? Don’t deny hope, Mister Hades. It’s the most powerful thing there is.”

Hades looks around himself. It’s strange, how just that morning the same image inspired awe in this crowd. Now he just looks small, a solitary man standing above the world. “Go on then,” he growls. “Show me. Show everyone the power of your hope. Change an old man’s mind.

Nodding, Orpheus takes a step back. “Okay.”

One more time, he starts to play.

Ever since he was a child, Orpheus has heard stories about Hades and Persephone. From Hermes, from Persephone, from Hades on the radio, from the travellers passing through. And while some of them have spoken of a cruel king, a god who stands above with blood dripping from his fingers, Orpheus has seen something different. Now he has Eurydice, he knows it better. Now he is in Hadestown, he can see the truth.

He sings of grey walls, high gates – a world hidden behind the Wall. A man who builds walls around his home and his heart, and a woman who spends her time away. He sings of oppression from above, heads turned down and eyes closed, lives wasted in work. The world that is, as he has seen it. Everything that surrounds them, the fog of depression that chokes the air from their lungs and the light from their eyes.

Orpheus plays another chord and sings of a humble man, of a king who had the world but still had nothing until he held her. Of a love that burned hotter than the factory furnace, brighter than the neon lights. And he sings of them, together. Hand pressed against hand, cheek against cheek. Of a man who could see the way the world would be if he opened his heart to hope.

“La, la la la, la la la…”

His hand slips to another chord. Low and deep, resonating in his chest. And Hades doesn’t say a word, just turns and looks at Persephone. Persephone, who stands there, her hair coming loose and her fists clenched at her side and her eyes filled with tears. And gently, so gently, he takes her hand. When she doesn’t resist, he places his other hand on her waist. And slowly, carefully, they start to dance.

It is like the spell of silence is broken. He sings his melody, over and over, and the workers take up the song. Up above them, Persephone’s incredulity crumbles into joy. She holds his hand and leads him down, to a set of metal stairs that lead down onto the floor. Down there, among the people, they have room to dance. Her skirt swirls around her ankles as he spins her, a smile breaking out over his face – this one warm, hesitant.

And the workers aren’t afraid anymore, because their lord is just a man. They dance, and sing, and laugh, and shout names to each other. They link arms, join together in circles, their hands warm in each other’s grasp. Their voices call across the music, slow and slurred and cracked from years of misuse, but still they sing. Still they shout. Still they stomp their feet and clap their hands and join the song.

Eurydice takes Orpheus’ shoulders and spins him around, and a laugh bubbles out of his lips. She is smiling, her face radiant, hope once more blossoming in her soft brown eyes. He is caught up in her joy, staring deep into her eyes as he plays just to her, wanting to stay forever in this moment.

Then the song is over, and Orpheus’ feet stop moving. He comes to a halt before the couple, their arms entwined around each other’s bodies, stepping slowly from side to side.

Orpheus speaks gently. “If you want to keep her safe, build a world she can be safe in. If you want her to stay, be a person she can come back to. She doesn't want a king. Just her husband.” He doesn’t know if they are even listening, but the words are inside him, and so he speaks.

When he turns around, his lover is standing there, beaming. “Eurydice,” he says, and everything is in that single world.

She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes,” she says, nodding.

He wraps his arms around her, draws her into a hug. “You remember?” he asks, looking her over. Her eyes are the right colour, but her skin is still grey, the bite on her arm bruised and purple, her movements slow.

“Yes!” she says, her voice dreamy. She grabs his hand, pulling him forwards. “Let's go! Let's ask him to let us go. And give us some of the Serum.”

Orpheus looks across at Hades, still deep in his lover’s arms. “You think he'll say yes?”

“Look around you. They're all people again. All of them. And Hades...he won't turn us down, not now.” The workers have split into small groups, sitting on the floor or leaning against walls. They talk amongst themselves, sharing the memories that have formed in their head over these last few hours.

Orpheus blinks at Eurydice. An image flashes through his mind, unbidden – those same people closing in around him as Hades looks on, smiling. His blood splattered on the concrete. “You're sure?”

“More than anything.” She links arms with him, and suddenly it as though there are only the four of them in the world. Orpheus and Eurydice standing before the doors, with just Hades and Persephone in their way.

His hand is in hers, but his voice still shakes when he asks the question.

“Mister Hades.”

Hades’ head draws up from Persephone’s shoulder. He looks at the boy as though he had forgotten his presence.

“Mister Hades. Can we go? Me and Eurydice. Can we leave, with some of that Serum?”

And Hades stares at Orpheus. He looks back at Persephone, her hesitant smile. Then his gaze sweeps over the workers, whose feet once more are still, who stand to attention looking at him, but this time he is not on high. He is among them.

There is a noise to his right, someone clearing their throat. Hades looks to its source – at the three grey ladies standing by the side door, their ever-present smirks flickering across their faces.

Hades glances back to Orpheus, rubs his hand over his chin, licks his lips and speaks.

“I…I need to think.”

And with that, he drops his lover’s hand, and disappears back into his office, the Fates following behind.

-

"Why do we build the Wall? To keep us free, my children. The Wall keeps out the dangers of the outside world. It is the ultimate deterrent for those rebels from the outside. The Wall is our freedom and our strength. While the Wall stands, we stand."

-

A few hours have passed. Orpheus paces in front of the doors, back and forth, like a man possessed. Eurydice is out among the workers, talking to them, promising to carry messages back to the world of the living. Her face is like a ray of light, but Orpheus can feel the darkness clouding his mind.

He could have said yes. That is all that Orpheus is thinking. Hades could have said yes, and let them go without a fuss. But instead, he's gone, and now there is only the waiting, the maddening waiting. He and Eurydice could be back in Olympus by now, sharing drinks with Mister Hermes next to a warm fire. Instead, they are here.

Persephone lingers by the door, rocking back and forth on her heels. She sees Orpheus hunched against the wall, his guitar held close to his chest, and sits beside him.

"Hey," she says, smiling.

"Hey." He doesn't look at her. His eyes are still fixed on Eurydice, circling through the crowd. She looks so at home among them.

"You did good, back there," says Persephone. "Orpheus, I've never seen my husband act like that, not since Before. He just doesn't want to admit that his mind can be changed."

"I hope it has," he says. "I hope it was enough."

Persephone squeezes his shoulder. "Of course it was," she says, standing. "You've got a gift, kid."

Twenty more minutes pass. Orpheus counts every tick of the clock. The workers are sitting on the floor now, taking the sorely needed chance to rest for a few moments. One of them, a woman with a cloud of dark hair and a worried expression, approaches him. Her voice reaches through his anxiety.

"Can't you stay?" When he doesn't respond, her hand drifts up to rub her neck, and the thin scars that arc over her chest. "We need that song."

Orpheus looks up to her, and for a second he lets his worry drain away into a smile. "You have that song," he tells her.

She shakes her head. "It's your song."

"It's not. I just sing it." He stands, slinging his guitar back onto his back.

"What's the difference?"

"Everything!" Around him, he can see the workers turning at his voice, paying attention. "Anyone can sing it, not just me. All you have to do is remember. Remember, and sing, and stay yourselves. As long as you can."

"We will," the worker says, softly.

Orpheus feels a tap on his shoulder, and there is Eurydice again, opening her arms for a hug. "You see," she whispers into his ear. "You gave them hope."

"Yeah," says Orpheus. He doesn't voice the thoughts running through his head. Hades' mocking words run through his head – "Is that all you have to offer, boy?"

Just then, the speakers crackle to life once more. Everyone stands to attention, staring up at the ceiling. Orpheus grips Eurydice's hand, holding her tightly.

"I have come to a decision." Hades' voice echoes around the suddenly silent hall. Orpheus sees the workers, holding their breath, Persephone closing her eyes and breathing a prayer. Hades sounds smaller, somehow, less imperious. "The boy Orpheus and the worker Eurydice can leave. I have terminated her contract." Orpheus takes in a breath – but the speakers fall quiet, and before them, the main doors start to grind open.

His chest is tight. "What about the Serum?" he asks to himself. Hades' voice sounds in his ears again – "Without the Serum, she'd be gone in a day." But Eurydice is still holding his hand. Grinning, she steps forward, pulling him towards the door.

"It's okay," she says. "It's okay. I remembered when you sang. You can keep me whole."

Orpheus drops her hand, reaches back for his guitar. "Right," he says, but the word rings hollow. Static is starting to buzz in his mind, the familiar hallmark of things going wrong. He stands beside her, and she takes a lurching step forward, tipping almost off-balance. Instantly, he is beside her, helping her up.

"Sorry," she says. "You'll have to go ahead. I'm not as fast as you anymore." Another step, her left foot dragging forwards to join her right. They are beyond the doors now, Hadestown vanishing behind them as the portal swings slowly shut, gates starting to open. From here, all he can hear are the moans and roars of the undead hordes, some scratching at the gates impatient to taste the boy's flesh.

Orpheus nods. "You'll be right behind me, though?"

"Always." She hasn't stopped smiling, all this time. Is he imagining things, or can he see a familiar gleam in her eyes. "Come on. Start playing."

And he does. The guitar gives its familiar hum under his practiced hands. The gates are open fully now, the mass of grey bodies spilling through and shuffling towards them. Orpheus plays the first notes of his song, the melody rising and falling, and they stop for a second, staring at him. He will never be used to the way they stare, their eyes shining in the light of the rising moon.

"La, la la la, la la la…"

His song is not the only sound. All around, the undead groan and howl. Their feet plod in the dirt, their hands scratch to reach him. He takes in a breath, trying to focus on the song. When he came through the first time, it was so easy to him. He had a goal then, a purpose. He was saving Eurydice. But now? She shuffles along behind him, each step a torment. His song clears a protective path in front and behind, but the zombies are only paying attention to him. And why not? After all, she is kin to them, now. A half-life. One foot in the grave. Closer to the dead than the living.

“La, la la la, la la la…”

He sings, but his voice sounds so small now over the moans of the horde. Was it always so loud? A hand grasps the back of his jacket – Eurydice smiling weakly at him, following in his footsteps. Her hand is unnaturally pale, and her eyes are glowing their phosphorescent shine, silver moonlight on his face. He swallows, trying to focus. The song is all that matters now. The song will guide them home.

“La, la la la, la la la…”

More hands reach for his face, his hair, his arms. They pull him to and fro, his body buffeted between corpses. They trip his feet and grab at his body, their yellow nails leaving scratches on his bare arm. They smell of rot and decay, and graveyard dirt. He can feel her hand at his back, guiding him on his path – or is it one of them? He doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to know; if she has slipped back into the crowd, how will he find her among the bodies? There are thousands of zombies in the Wall. Thousands and thousands…

“La, la la la…”

Orpheus’ voice dies in his throat. There’s something ahead of him, a figure that he recognises. His feet pick up speed; his breath rattles in his throat, wanting to see but not wanting to get close.

It's one of the Fates – but not like they were before. This one's skin is pallid, the crimson dripping around her mouth not lipstick. The whole of her left cheek is missing. Through the ragged gap, Orpheus can see yellowing teeth, the writhing muscle of her tongue. She grins at him, her words slurring as they leave her lips. "Who are you to defy a man as powerful as Hades?

One of her sisters stands beside her. There are chunks bitten from her calf and forearms, black blood flowing from the wounds. Her skin is peeling from bone; her hair has almost completely escaped her turban, and cascades down her back, haphazard chunks missing. "Was that your whole plan?"

He stumbles, turning the other way; the third Fate blocks his path. The front of her dress is rusted red, her guts pulled from her stomach and hanging there, rancid. He fights the urge to throw up as she gives him that unearthly smirk. Her deep voice is scratchy and hoarse, not a singer's lilt. "Did you really think you can fight the plague with a song?"

Orpheus' lips say nothing, but his heart whispers the reply. No.

The trio’s smiles widen, and just like that they are gone, swallowed up by the crowd. He stands there, breathing, trying to make sense of the grim vision. Their words circulate in his mind, drowning out even the sounds of the zombies.

His hands are still. He isn’t singing. He can’t feel a hand at her back.

“Eurydice,” he whispers, turning. Orpheus’ eyes scan the crowd – unfamiliar faces, grey with decay, look back at him slack-jawed. “Eurydice!” he calls, loud as his tired voice can muster. The zombies reach for him, their movements pincer-sharp, hunger in their eyes. He swings his guitar blindly, holding them back for a precious second. “Eurydice!”

There! A coughing sound, loud and hacking, from a figure slumped on the floor. Eurydice holds out a hand ahead of her, eyes white with fear. He shoves the zombies away with his guitar, fighting to get closer. She is doubled over, her arms folded over her stomach, that terrible cough issuing from her throat. He pushes through the horde, falling to his knees in front of her. She looks up at him and says his name, and he plays a chord, starts to sing, but his voice is tuneless, toneless.

The silver light in her eyes is glowing, intense. She coughs again, her lungs rattling. A dull, low moan starts to come from her mouth.

“No…” He just kneels there, plucking chords at random. It’s not music, it’s not the Song, he doesn’t know what it is. He is kneeling there still as she starts to reach for him. Her silver eyes are cold. If she recognises him, she shows no sign of it. Her face, which used to shine like the sun, has gone slack.

Eurydice’s hands grab at the front of his shirt. He acts on instinct, stumbling backwards. His guitar is still in his hand – he holds it between them, a makeshift barrier. Her fingernails scratch at the old wood, and in his white-knuckled grip the guitar splits in two. Her face appears; her mouth is frozen in a snarl, lines of black blood trickling from her mouth. That wound on her arm is weeping blood again. She reaches for him again, nothing in her face but hunger.

And Orpheus does the only thing he can think of. Dropping the splintered pieces of his shattered guitar, he turns from the love of his life, and begins to run.

-

"Good evening, folks. Mister Hermes here. I'd like to apologise for my absence from the airwaves. There's a matter been keeping me from broadcasting these last few days, somebody I've been searching for. So as the night draws its black cloak over us little people, I want to spare a thought for all those who are alone tonight. It's hard times out here. People are struggling to make it through the winter on whatever food they can trade or find. People are making desperate choices in the dead of night just to keep walking for one more day. This old world of ours is a sad and lonely place, and sometimes there are no happy endings. So, before I sign off for the night, I just wanted to ask. If you see a boy out there, wandering the wastelands playing his guitar...if you're out there, Orpheus. If you can hear me. Come home."

Chapter Text

Deep in the wastelands, a young poet sits on the rusting shell of an old car, and takes a swig from his canteen.

The water tastes of dust and iron, but it is soothing to his burning throat. Beside him lie his few possessions – an old canvas bag with a pair of wings on the side, filled with the kind of food that won’t go stale, and a guitar. This one is darker than his old one, more intact, though he still had to tape the fretboard together. It took him two weeks just to find. He runs his hand through his hair, limp and unwashed, and picks it up gently.

Above him, the sun is dawning, the sky blushing a light salmon. He sits on a stub of one of the old bridges, the churning black water beneath him. Behind, the bridge has completely collapsed. He can see on the other side a zombie trapped in a car, scraping hopelessly at a locked door with fingers worn down to the bone. Beneath, pale and bloated hands reach out of the water, the sound of rushing water covering the groans from undead lips.

And ahead of him is the Wall. The outer edge, the gates of Hadestown barely visible behind the mass of lives that throng together. Zombies with one arm, zombies with no legs, zombies in Hadestown uniforms, zombies in pyjamas and t-shirts and cheerleader outfits, all of them groan and shuffle together, aimlessly wandering.

His guitar is in his lap. As usual, his eyes flicker over the faces. There is one in particular he is searching for.

A young woman lurches towards him. The bite on her arm still weeps black blood, spattering into the dirt below. Her shoulder-length hair is messy and tangled, her boiler suit ripped and stained. Her skin is grey, and her eyes glow with silver light. She snarls, breaking away from the group and stumbling towards him, her feet dragging.

It has taken him so long to find her. An eternity, it felt like, though he knows it is really months. Little green buds have started to break through the cracked tarmac, vines creeping over the old buildings once more. The nights, when he sleeps covered only in his torn jacket, are less cold now. Sometimes he looks across the horde for the familiar sight of a black car breaking through the horde, but spring, he supposes, has not come yet.

The young woman stops at the base of the car, tilting her head to one side as she stares up at the poet. She begins to move around the edge of its shape, her fingers scrabbling in the rust. He takes another swig from his canteen, watching her. It is the same routine, every time. Someone once told him that madness was doing the same thing, over and over, and expecting a different result. But this is all the poet can do. He just prays it is enough.

Adjusting his grip on the guitar, the poet begins to play.

A memory flashes before his eyes. Sitting on top of the fence behind Olympus, playing to the zombies trapped within. He could never bring them back fully, just calm them for a few moments. And indeed, at the base of the car, the young woman has stopped growling and pawing at the unyielding metal. She stands, staring up at him as though she has lost something she can’t quite remember, swaying gently to the beat. The same way she has done a thousand times, on a hundred days.

He plays on, letting his hands get swept away in the music. Even now, it is soothing to him. When he shuts his eyes, he could be anywhere. In his room on Olympus before things went wrong, singing and playing while she listened and shouted suggestions, bathed in the campfire’s warm glow as Mister Hermes danced with Persephone, even in that childhood room before they found their home, Hermes’ hands on his as he taught the boy all that he knew.

“La, la la la, la la la…”

He is barely singing it to her now, just himself. His eyes are closed, his face bathed in the morning light. The whole world has shrunk to just the young woman and the poet, her confused presence shambling around, him like a statue with the voice of a lark.

She is still staring at him. Is it a trick of the dawning light, or is the silver glow in her eyes duller now? The poet holds his guitar closer, his hands stronger, looking her straight in the eye. Every atom inside him is begging her to hear. The real her, not the creature she has become. The person locked inside the body that is before him.

The young woman’s hands reach out and scratch at the car, then go flat against its chassis. She is leaning there, askew, hands beating against rusted metal and eyes darting around. He sings louder, nearly shouting the melody. Every beat of his heart echoes her name. Every breath he takes is for her, has always been for her.

She takes a step back and looks at him. Something is dawning in those soft brown eyes, something haunted. Then she seems to fold in on herself, dropping to her knees, her arms tight around her body.

After a moment, she lifts her head again, and her eyes are filled with tears. The blood that flowed down her arm has trickled to a stop. She takes in a breath, swallows, and takes another. Her arm reaches out towards him, but the fingers do not grab for his flesh. Instead, her palm is turned skyward, beckoning him in.

The poet sings another line of his melody. He is standing on top of the car now – he takes a step down onto the bonnet, closer to where she kneels. She makes a strange, choked sound, but doesn’t move.

When her outstretched arm starts to tremble, she holds it up towards him. When the tears swell in the corners of her eye, she blinks them away, a shaky smile crossing her lips. And when she opens her mouth, the voice that comes out is not a groan, but a whisper.

"It's you."