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1. The Cabin at the Forest’s Edge
No one really knows when the world stopped being what it used to be. Somewhere along the passage of time, technology began to become scarce outside the big cities, the forests began to spread, and occupations such as vagabonds and farmers became common. Even now during the darkest nights, Orpheus could look to the horizon and see the glitter of distant factories working in perpetuity, glowing cities, towers made out of stone.
When Eurydice first visited Hermes’ bar she brought information and tales from further south, she had half-boasted and half-warned about the great metallic mechanisms of the cities. She was cold from the late autumn weather, warming her hands on a mug of tea and greatly curious in the town she had come to visit. She had commented about how rare it was to find rural towns in this day and age that still had electricity. The rest of the bar had proudly informed her the power was thanks to fully operating watermills, the dams were all cracked and no longer working.
Later the same week, this time alone with Orpheus in his room, she had told him more about the specifics of her journeys as she touched the callouses of his hands. He had asked if he could kiss her, and she had laughed and told him yes. They hadn’t left his room for the rest of the night.
“How does a poet get by in a town of farmers?” she asked with her hair pressed against his bare chest.
“Surprisingly well,” Orpheus explained simply and felt Eurydice laugh in his arms.
By spring they had moved into a cabin by the edge of the tall forest, phthalo green with pine and speckled bright by the early blooms of chestnut trees. They had a small and overgrown farm, a few cows and a bitter old goat, and a henhouse with a handsome rooster that hated them both.
Despite Orpheus having years of hard work under his belt, Eurydice shrieked with surprise and delight when he carried her in his skinny arms. During their “wedding” night, the evening was so bright that they could see one another without candles nor lanterns.
By summer there was warning in the town to usher great care, especially the citizens who like Orpheus and Eurydice lived perilously close to the forest. During summer the great glaciers up north would melt, sending down beasts and creatures driven by hunger.
By autumn they were both very much accustomed to foxes trying (and at times succeeding) to take their chickens. Once early in the morning Eurydice had been witness to a coyote trying to get a chicken, only to be promptly scared off by their goat in a bloodthirsty fit. When Orpheus woke up she had told him, “don’t know why people go to the city for entertainment, we have a whole circus here.”
One particular autumn night the familiar noise of chickens in sudden mass distress came from outside, and at once Eurydice had shot out of the couch and to the window to see.
“Is it the fox again?” Orpheus asks and is quickly by her side with the lantern in hand. The night is dark blue and revealed little, only the familiar square shape of the barn visible. Eurydice presses her face closer against the window.
“There. Do you see?”
“I don’t see an-“ Orpheus begins and then sees just the slightest hint of motion, shapes in the night; something far too big to be a fox. Despite neither of them voicing it, there is suddenly an air of fear hanging over them both.
“I’ll go look,” he informs quickly and hastily gets dressed for the cold night.
“Why are you taking the gun?” Eurydice asks unhumored, and Orpheus smiles a little crooked.
“Just in case it’s that coyote again.”
“Orpheus-”
“I’ll be careful, I promise!” he assures and gratefully takes the lantern she hands him.
The very moment he is out the door, uncertainty strikes. Anxiety of what lurks in the dark, regret that he didn’t listen to Eurydice, and just a tinge of anticipation.
He lets the lantern hang off his arm and quickly loads the shotgun with two shells. Despite most animals running the moment they see or hear a human, larger ones like bears or wolves can occasionally need a little encouragement. Despite Eurydice having the better aim out of the two of them, Orpheus has good enough aim to fire warning shots into the sky.
He touched the wall of the henhouse as he passed by it in some sort of bizarre comforting gesture, either for him or the chickens, then continued. The spot where he had seen the motion was by now empty, nothing but mud and leaves, and in the window he sees Eurydice.
Just a quick lap around the house, around the barn, and then he would go inside. The night is frightening and fear pounds in his chest, but he’s not an idiot. If he can’t keep some carnivore from taking any livestock, he ain’t particularly worthy of living in the woods.
Courage rekindled and determined, Orpheus reaches the end of the path and calls out,
“Helloooo? Is anyone there?”
Nothing. He waves the lantern around a little and sees nothing.
Satisfied, he turns back around and begins a second lap back to the door. Orpheus put a hand against the wall of the farmhouse and followed its shape back. He rounded the corner, and then his heart dropped like a stone.
The woods were just as safe as any other forest – foxes, wolves, bears. But sometimes, rare enough to only be considered folktales, far stranger creatures would depart from the woods – monsters that were remnants and leftovers from a time where Gods walked the earth.
When Orpheus was a young boy there had been an eight legged monster, with fur like black tar and radiant eyes, that had caused havoc at the village before finally being driven off towards the glaciers. He had never gotten to see it, only heard the rest of the village tell tall tales and use their hands to showcase how big its teeth were.
Despite Orpheus never having seen the creature in person, the memory rang familiar the moment he saw the monster in his backyard.
Hunched outside the wooden pen was a massive beast, like a wolf on two legs, lit up only by the light of the moon and Orpheus’ lantern. It had paw-like hands twice the size of Orpheus’ head, three placed on the forest floor and one in the air. Decidedly canine or perhaps ursine in nature, covered in black and silver fur, and watching him with the fearless curiosity of an apex predator that never had needed to fear being hunted.
The light of the lantern vaguely caught its eyes, meeting Orpheus’ own gaze.
Neither of them were moving.
He estimated the animal to be approximately twice his size if it would stand to its full height, decidedly larger than a fox or coyote. Orpheus took a deep breath to still himself, petrified but stubborn, and cocked the shotgun.
Before he could even aim the monster bared teeth in warning, eyes glittering with an intelligence that informed him it knew what weapon he held in his hands. Orpheus softly realized that a simple warning shot wouldn’t do; even if he managed to scare it off, it would just continue further down the edge of the forest and attack elsewhere.
A stillness washes over him, and Orpheus shoots.
The entire world explodes with noise; the cattle they own break into a howling cacophony, the wolf-like beast rears and screams, the echoing shot sending birds in the treetops flying, and Orpheus’ own heartbeat thundering in his ears and limbs.
And then the beast attacks him. It doesn’t pounce like a common animal, but instead one giant paw knocks the lantern out of Orpheus’ hand and nearly takes the gun with it. He’s pinned to the ground by a paw so heavy it risks crushing his sternum, and a cold panic rushes up his spine.
Fully aware of the risk of shooting blind and so close to his person, Orpheus raises the barrel and shoots upwards and a loud yelp comes in response. Orpheus doesn’t get another chance to shoot or react, just blindly waves his arm in defense because the night is too dark to see anything but the large shape pinning him down.
Orpheus’ feels his hand press against what he thinks is teeth, every nerve in his body keen on keeping those giant jaws away from his flesh. The paw-hand on his chest grapples him so that sharp claws dig into his sides, and then it throws him with the same ease a child would throw a doll.
Orpheus crashes into the trunk of a tree and all air is punched out of his lungs. His mind races with what could have happened – broken ribs, ruptured organs, whiplash – and before Orpheus is able to get up and check himself for injuries, a horrible cracking noise comes from behind.
He turns his head to look and catches glimpse of the creature running into the forest, the shotgun having fallen onto the leafy ground and–
“Oh,” Orpheus wheezed meekly.
With the lantern blown out, the only light illuminating the evening emanates from the sky and the house, shining off the broken off metal pipe of the gun. Broken in half, the barrel thoroughly separated from the wooden stock. He scans the dark trees to see if the wolf-creature still is there, but sees nothing.
There’s a loud creak as the cabin door swings open and lets out a narrow slit of golden light. Eurydice rushes out with a lantern in her hand, looking around and then gasping when her eyes catch on him.
“Orpheus!” she called, throwing a quick look into the dark forest as if to see if the coast was clear, and then running towards him as Orpheus groaned and rolled over.
“It might still be here–,“ he says and finds that he has been robbed of the ability to speak for the moment, and Eurydice is instantly by his side and helping him stand up.
“It didn’t scare easy,” Orpheus mumbled and took Eurydice’s hand, letting himself be dragged up and squeaked with pain when his ribcage protested. There would be intense bruising to look forwards to, and perhaps more – he was still waiting for the adrenaline to die down and reveal dire wounds he had yet to notice.
The night was quieter now. From inside the barn came noises of distressed cattle, in the distance echoed bird cawing, but no canine creature snarling. Perhaps most living things – monster or not – have the common sense to run off after being shot twice.
“What the hell was it?” Eurydice asked and picked up the remains of the gun, inspecting the broken parts with fascination. Orpheus frowned in thought, attempting to brush leaves off his coat before acutely coming to the conclusion that movement hurts.
“I don’t know,” he replied truthfully. “It was big, like a monster – it didn’t look right.”
“Didn’t look right,” Eurydice repeated blankly. “What’s that mean?”
“Normal. It didn’t look normal.”
Once indoors, Eurydice looked him up and down with a firm frown and lips in a thin line. The only trouble was to remove Orpheus’ jacket: both of them discovered he was damn near unable to move his arms in any capacity. There was no blood staining his clothes (just a splatter on the jacket, resulting from having shot the beast at such a precariously small distance), and already bruises were developing on his sides.
Apparently satisfied with his health, Eurydice slapped him on the shoulder and Orpheus breathlessly croaked ow at the unexpected touch.
“What was that for?” he hissed.
“For not listenin’ to me! I told you not to go out! You could’ve gotten hurt – look at this!” She held up the parts of the mauled shotgun, and in the light of their home Orpheus jaw went slack seeing the damage done. It looked as if the beast had stomped on it, with enough force to break it in half and bend the pipe beyond repair.
“I’m fine though,” Orpheus assured and very carefully stretched out his arms, as if to demonstrate his health. “See?” he said and Eurydice looked him over. “I might’a bruised my ribs but that’s all. Look, I’m fine. Just don’t hug me.”
“Your arm,” Eurydice said and pointed to a series of smaller punctures on his wrist. It was vertical and the size of his finger, dirtied with filth and blood.
“I had to keep his mouth off of me,” he explained.
Eurydice’s brow shot up.
“That’s a tooth?”
“Oh, it was real big, lover, you should’ve seen it.”
“You’re gonna give me grey hairs.”
She shoves at his chin when he tries to kiss her.
2. The Alluring Forest, Night
As someone with experience in both herding cats and wrangling goats, Eurydice quickly discovered a far tougher task: pacifying Orpheus.
On account of her husband’s bruised ribs, the clinicians had given him strict advice to not move until they healed. As long as Eurydice had known him, Orpheus had never once been able to sit still and much less do nothing; always in motion, always humming and when not occupied he would fumble with his fingers as if playing an invisible instrument only he knew the chords to.
Orpheus became under-stimulated within less than a day.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” he said after a week of being stuck in the house, as evidenced by every shelf being thoroughly dust-free, and leftovers from complex meals he had began to make as an outlet for his creativity. And yes, Eurydice did have to admit – taking it easy for a week was a luxury they could not particularly afford, especially not with the approach of winter.
Even if he still had to be careful, things as simple as visiting the town to pick up parcels of meat for dinner turned out to be damn near life saving. Orpheus still couldn’t lift his arms above his head, and once when he bent over to lift up a bucket he screamed so loudly that Eurydice ran out of the house wielding a crow bar and thinking he had been attacked.
Other than that, he healed nicely. The bruises went from red and purple to a mute green, in comparison to the gash on his wrist which took a week to even close properly and was cleaned rigorously every day.
“Does it hurt?” Eurydice asked as she watched him dab it with cotton and alcohol.
“It don’t hurt – but it does itch something fiercely.”
“Good,” Eurydice said. “That means it’s healing.”
The nurse in the village had told them that it wasn’t much of an injury, that Orpheus ought be almost completely fine after a month or so. And he was fine, although perhaps mostly physically.
Just over three weeks since the incident, Orpheus began to act in an unfamiliarly bizarre way; oversleeping, bouts of silence, a sort of tenseness Eurydice had never seen in him before. She knew Orpheus, and she knew that he was odd – when they had began seeing one another, mister Hemes had pulled her aside to talk about him in a manner Eurydice could only call protective.
Odd. Aloof. In his own world. Either too much or nothing at all in conversation. Traits that were expected and endearing in a child, but less than appropriate in an adult. Not at all immature but instead intelligent, if naive in unexpected ways. Never in her life had Eurydice before met a man who knew what plants and mushrooms were poisonous, how to flay a rabbit in several different ways, how to read music notes and chords, impeccable memory for the slightest things – and yet he couldn’t recognize sarcasm nor multiply anything with numbers higher than five.
His uniqueness was part of him and Eurydice loved it as much as she loved the rest of him, but this wasn’t that. This was Orpheus suddenly becoming distracted by things she couldn’t see, Orpheus with bouts of paranoia and shrinking into himself.
It was a strange feeling, to miss someone that she spent every day with.
***
Last month, Persephone had gone to bed alone. The solitude was appreciated, she had walked around the house with the phonograph playing the records she enjoyed but Hades most of the time did not. Finishing up letters that needed be sent, listing in her journal things that needed to be done and people she needed to meet, indulging in tea and a lemon tartlet and not having to bother to fetch anything for anyone else.
She had fallen asleep early, and woken up when she heard her name being shouted from outside the window Hades calling for her with an urgency in his voice she had never heard. She had ran downstairs wearing only a jacket and a nightgown and was met with the sight of her husband with half his face split open.
There had been shrapnel and blood adorning the right side of his face, and he had voiced a not at all unreasonable concern about losing his right eye. Persephone entered a sort of trance and plucked metal shards out of her husband’s flesh, remembering every little piece of medical information she had learned in her youth or begged her aunt to tell her.
Pincers, alcohol, cotton and towels – everything as well as her hands became soaked in blood as she worked for what felt like ten minutes but perhaps was hours. Hades had been conscious and speaking throughout, sometimes making little noises of pain but speaking almost conversationally. It had been fine, no stitches had been needed all thanks to whatever moonstruck affliction coursed through Persephone’s husbands veins. Fine. He was fine. Scarred, bloodied, shocked, some of his right ear gone – but fine.
The shock had faded, and Persephone had began to shiver with wrath and fear while blood dried on her hands. The worst had passed and there now was room to feel, and she had nearly passed out as everything washed over her and little tears formed in her eyes.
“Idiot,” she muttered into his grey and black fur. “Idiot, idiot, idiot.”
“I’m sorry,” he rasped back, the moon descending and humanity returning.
They slept for half of the following day.
A month after her husband had come home and frightened both himself and Persephone into a state of near shock, the full moon was on the rise again. Both of them were in a state of stress, sitting on the patio and sharing a few cigars to soothe their nerves before the moon peaked.
It was a farmer, Hades had said the morning after the accident. Didn’t know anyone lived that far into the forest.
Fine scars and small dents adorned Hades face, having faded and healed faster than they would on a normal man but not disappearing entirely. The most prominent of the scars was the cut in his ear, a series of sharp jags over the shell of his ear. Hades had picked up the habit of touching the scarring and frown, sometimes even needing Persephone to assure him that no one’s gonna notice it if he stops fiddling with it.
“Try not to get shot again,” Persephone says and hands him the cigar.
Hades chuckled.
“I don’t think I have much say in the matter.”
“You could avoid people.”
“I can try.”
Persephone sucks her teeth and rocks her chair restlessly. Once she asked why Hades must run around during the full moon instead of sleeping like most people do at night. Hades had explained that he doesn’t control all of it, that he doesn’t trust himself enough to be near people (not even her) and that he couldn’t sleep if he so tried to.
“What time is it?” he asks and hands back the cigar. Persephone tosses up a sleeve to checks the watches on her wrist, one belonging to her and one that Hades doesn’t trust himself to leave the house with.
“Quarter past seven,” she says and then stares into the night with disappointment. “It’s too early to be this dark.” Hades scoffs gently in agreement.
They finish the cigar and then another, before Hades suddenly stands up and says “Oh,” and Persephone watches him as he disrobes and steps into the grass. She watches him suddenly writhe and convulse, and then the body of her husband is gone and replaced with that of an eleven foot tall canine creature covered in grey and black fur.
The first time she saw him turn, it was four years ago and introduced by Hades telling her ‘I have to show you something’. Persephone didn’t know what she had expected, but it absolutely had not been seeing the man she had been in a relationship with for four months to turn into a giant monster.
She knew not to fear him now; Hades turned to look over his shoulder and his grey eyes shone with intelligence as they reflected the moonlight. He gives a slight reaction when Persephone presses against his side and hugs him tightly.
“Be careful,” she mutters into his fur and Hades hums in promise.
***
For dinner, Orpheus makes a rabbit stew. It sends a smell so heavenly throughout the entirety of their home that Eurydice several times insists on tasting a ladle of it, until Orpheus has enough and tells her patience is a virtue.
Dinner has been set and almost finished, delicious and savory and so appreciated, when Orpheus all of a sudden stands up which such force the table rattles and says,
“I have to go.”
“What?” Eurydice replies while still holding a glass of water to her mouth. Orpheus wide eyes remind her of a panicked deer, whites visible and looking around the room as if looking for something only he can see.
It is an abrupt change to their usual evenings, dinner and then a slow evening before they fall asleep tangled in close to keep warm in the bitingly cold nights. Eurydice was even relishing how calm Orpheus appeared to be, a little bit like his old self, only to have that comforting thought interrupted by seeing him gasp as if drowning.
“I can’t- I- I have to go,” Orpheus repeats and absentmindedly tugs at his collar. “Now.”
“Go? Where?”
“Just away. Not here. I’m sorry,” he says in a ramble and nearly leaps out of his chair and begins to walk away, before instantly returning to grab his plate and dishes and dutifully dragging them into the kitchen. Eurydice stands up and follows after him, uncertain whether to be annoyed or afraid as her husband pulls on his boots and stumbles against the wall for balance.
“Orpheus?” she says in a bright tone that briefly catches his attention. He has both boots on now, and he looks at her with eyes like saucers as she says, “Orpheus, what’s wrong?”
“I have to go,” he repeats again in an infernally useless explanation and opens the door without even bothering for a jacket. “I’m so sorry, I just have to go out, I have to be gone. I will be back.”
The door slams shut and Eurydice is left alone, barely able to process what just happened.
***
Four years of living in the outskirts of the forest, and still Hades finds himself frequently frightened to stray further than a few square miles into the woodlands. He lived the majority of his life in the city, where the nearby forests were nowhere near as deep and mysterious as they were by his wife’s home town.
“Once a whole house sank underground,” Persephone had told him with macabre delight, thirty-six years old and on one of their first meetings (dates) half a decade ago. “Old mudlands that belonged to something else. Entire house gone – all that was left was the chimney poking out.”
“Why would anyone choose to live somewhere that dangerous?” Hades had tentatively replied.
“Oh, I could ask you the same,” she had said with a slight grin, drinking straw in her mouth and gesturing to the smoke and construction outside the café.
Later in life, Hades would credit this as the moment he fell in love with her. If he still had been in touch with his parents, they would have certainly chastised him for crossing half the country to move in with a woman he had known for barely a year.
Everything in the new state had been so green, a deep almost blue green that remained even during the winter. Further out, the forests were colored in sap and lime, birch trees surrounding relatively safe places of sun that from spring to early autumn were utterly gorgeous.
Now frost adorned the grass and the leafy trees were becoming barren, and Hades was proud enough to admit that there were parts of the forest he didn’t dare tread with or without wolf guise. A few select experiences has led him to find out that the full moon brings out monsters and beasts of all forms, something Hades is certain that scholars would love to write books about if anyone dared to go past the trees tall as towers.
The moon has been high for an hour when dread fills Hades’ veins. Leaving the house suddenly seems a mistake, and he paces the cold forest floor as carefully as if it were armed with landmines. Persephone once asked if werewolves had a sixth sense, and Hades wished he knew enough about this affliction to answer either of their questions. Thirty years of living like this, and yet he knows annoyingly little; seeing better in the dark, sharper hearing, an immaculate nose, and ugly sharp teeth that made him refrain from smiling.
The night is noisy with scarce animal life, and Hades is only lightly startled when he sees a large shape move between trees. There’s moose in the forest, the occasional bear and smaller predator, but everything bigger in the forest is of an unnatural origin. He’s ready to disregard the animal as a deer and move on, and then it makes eye contact.
Head poking out from a black tree trunk, it stares at Hades with two eyes shining gently with intelligence in the moonlight.
He hasn’t seen another lycanthrope in years. Maybe more than a decade.
It is almost that he forgot what they look like, what he looks like.
There’s not much opportunity to see his reflection in this form, only glimpses of himself in ponds at night. It does not justice to the vision before him, the long face with two huge eyes and human limbs that look all wrong on a body covered in fur.
Hades almost calls out ‘hello’, not knowing how else to react.
The creature – person, a person – slowly moves towards him on elongated limbs and does not break eye contact. It is skinny, ragged, dexterous paws that look as nimble as human hands, two ears perked up and facing forwards. Hades thinks about dogs and their ears falling back when aggravated, hoping the dehumanizing comparison applies to werewolves as well.
‘Can you growl?’ Persephone asks in his head, years ago during an evening when she had gotten over the reveal of Hades’ lycanthropy and now was morbidly curious. The answer had been yes, indeed he can, sometimes reflexively. He finds comfort in the fact that the werewolf before him does not appear antagonistic.
It is very lanky – like a running hound or a horse, rather than a wolf. Around the werewolf’s skinny, maned neck is a red scarf, hanging on like a flag after a storm.
Oh god, Hades realizes and nearly speaks aloud in shock, it’s the boy.
His memory from a month ago is a blur, straying too close to civilization and then being shot, but the red scarf beneath those wide eyes ring clear as day in Hades’ mind. It only confuses him further because he barely remembers the struggle, barely remembers attacking the young man but thinks that even in a bloody flurry he would be very much aware to watch his teeth and not put this moonlight curse on anyone else, and yet–
And yet, the lycanthrope in front of him smells precisely like the man who shot him a month ago. Its eyes – his eyes – are as large and thoughtful as those of the farmer. The same narrow frame is now translated to wolf form, resulting in him looking like he has the physical resilience of a cellar spider. Never in his life has Hades been at such a loss as to what to do, standing still in the forest and eye to eye with a sharp toothed mistake.
The farmer turned wolf licks Hades on the nose, and abruptly tears Hades out of his thoughts as he almost slaps the werewolf on pure reflex.
“Don’t do that,” he hisses and its ears twitch. The first few times Hades turned he had no recollection or ability to communicate, left alone to nothing but instincts and before losing control having made sure he wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone. The werewolf (I don’t even know his name!) watches Hades with human intellect, but the same level of understanding as a rabid coyote. It’s possible the only reason he found Hades is tracking a scent that vaguely resembled his own. They are far away from the cabin Hades wondered by accidentally last month, and Hades feels his heart drop to his guts upon realizing he might have set a monster loose on the town.
“Come with me,” Hades croaks, and doesn’t know if his words are understood.
***
Persephone again wakes up to her name being called, but this time it is not with the same harrowing urgency as last month. She prepared this time, clothes and boots so that she can get dressed in a hurry and rush outside to see what has happened.
“What’s wrong?” she called back as she opened the door, instantly being soothed by seeing Hades not bleeding this time. “What happened now? Is eve– oh my god.”
Dutifully pacing behind Hades, another werewolf emerges from the dark forest. There is no way to mistake it for a common canine, it walks on two legs and the moment it sees Persephone, it begins to stare in a way that makes her pulse quicken.
“I will explain,” Hades says. His voice is low with shame.
“Oh my god,” Persephone repeats blankly. “Oh my god, Hades-“
“I know.”
“Hades!”
She cowers just a little bit behind him as the unknown werewolf approaches, still staring. Persephone has scarcely little experience with the supernatural and is uncertain as to how to react, if the werewolf is dangerous or if it like Hades is simply a human caught in wolf guise. Even then, Persephone isn’t so foolish to let her guard down just because of a sweet and comically long canine face.
“Who is that?” she asks as the werewolf stops by their fence and sniffs it with slight curiosity. Its fur is paler than Hades’ and even if they match in height it is far slimmer in stature, with a mane running along its spine from ears to the base of tail.
“That’s the man who shot me,” Hades quietly admits.
3. The House on the Lonesome Hill
The werewolf in their backyard is asleep before sunrise, passing out on the grass and not responding when prodded. The moon falls and Hades retreats indoors to get dressed, returning holding two cups of coffee and graciously offers Persephone one.
Many times Persephone has found herself grateful for the solitude of their house, more than ever now when there are no neighbors to witness as she and her husband drag a man wearing nothing but a red neckerchief indoors. The man weighs very little. Even if Hades hadn’t been stronger than a normal man, it would have been little effort to get him inside and then upstairs and into the guest room.
“This is the man who shot you?” Persephone asks when their work is done. With or without shotgun, he does not make for a particularly intimidating figure. He’s young and thin, without as much as a strand of hair on his chest. Persephone finds herself surprised at how much the wolf guise resembles the human form.
“I must’ve bit him. It was an accident – an accident,” Hades says and puts a hand on her arm as if to convince her further. “I didn’t mean to.”
Persephone looks up at him. There is always something almost hunted in his face the morning after full moon, scleras dark and eyes like that of a predator, his nails blackened and his teeth more prominent than usual. It only adds for a more genuine look to the concern in his face – her husband truly looks unsettled.
The severity of the situation dawns upon Persephone then, that Hades by accident has given rise to another werewolf on the countryside. She remembers Hades referring to it as an affliction or a curse, something he can bear to live with but took more than ten years for him to come to terms with.
How guilty he must feel, thinks Persephone and sympathy wrestles its way into her annoyance with the situation. It is Hades’ problem which he made into theirs, but that anger will have to wait until later.
They both peer in through the guest room door, uneasy with curiosity. The young man is as passed out as a cat by the heater and if not for his chest rising and falling beneath the covers, he could’ve been mistaken for dead. Persephone should herself be asleep, as should Hades, but neither of them are able to find any rest with a total stranger in the house.
As she moves to close the door and afford the young man some privacy, Persephone is suddenly struck with the startling feeling of realization,
“I think I’ve seen him before,” she whispers. “At Hermes’.”
“A customer?”
“No. He’s a waiter, busboy – takes orders and carries out the dishes. Some nights when I’ve been there, then he plays the guitar and sings.”
“Is he any good?”
Persephone blinks.
“Yes. Yes, actually, he’s very good.”
***
Orpheus wakes up in a room that he’s never seen before, with a headache so intense that sunlight hurts. It’s not an unfamiliar scenario; once a small group of customers managed to coax Orpheus into drinking with them, saying he deserved it after such a fine performance. He had become very drunk and ushered into one of the inn rooms by Hermes, who had told Eurydice of this story the first chance he got.
The room he was in was far too bright and untidy to belong to the pub, and the bed he was in was too big – it was nearly the size of his and Eurydice’s bed. Golden light seeps in through the thin curtains hanging before the window, there’s a luxuriously large wardrobe in the corner of the room, and next to Orpheus head is a bedside table with a glass of water and a small lamp.
An air of worry clouded his gut as every part of the situation piece by piece sank in: Orpheus couldn’t remember last night’s events in anything but a rapid blur, he was in a room he didn’t recognize, and upon moving beneath the covers he discovered that not only did each limb feel like it was made of lead, but he was completely naked.
“Hello?” he called out and discovered that his voice was hoarse and that the sound of it grated at his own eardrums. He hurt, every inch of his flesh felt like it had been worked by a rolling pin, and there was genuine fear clawing its way up his ribcage now.
The door creaked open and a woman in a floral robe poked her head in, with a cautious look on her face that matched the one on Orpheus’ own.
“Good morning,” she said. Her voice was rich and low. “How are you feeling?”
“I don’t know,” Orpheus replied truthfully. “Where am I? Who are you?”
“My name is Persephone, and you’re in my house,” the woman informed him and crossed her arms as she stepped in further. It is a clear invitation for Orpheus to continue, so he does.
“My name is Orpheus. Why am I here?”
Persephone opens her mouth to say something, but then there is the sound of someone coming up the stairs from behind her.
“Is he awake?” an impossibly deep voice says and a man appears in the door frame, and Orpheus presses the heavy covers closer to himself, despite already being completely covered. The man’s eyes catch on him and Orpheus wants to shrink into himself, become small so that there is less of him to look at.
“Orpheus, this is my husband Hades,” Persephone introduces them both with a sharp tone. The cold feeling of fear does not dissipate and Orpheus remains alert. Neither of them strike him as familiar. Deep voices, handsome faces, dressed clearly in lounge wear and both of them are tense as piano wire.
In the back of his head, Orpheus thinks of the most obvious reason why someone would end up naked in the bed of two handsome strangers, married ones at that. But he would never, could never do that, especially not now when he is married.
“Now I don’t know what kind of impression I may have given last night, but I am a happily married man,” Orpheus informs stiffly and sits up straighter, pressing the covers to his naked chest. “Whatever may have ensued I want it fully known it does not reflect my virtues–“
“We found you in the backyard,” Persephone hurriedly interrupts as Hades mouth drops open. “You were passed out in my garden. Decided it was best not to let you die in the cold.”
“Ah. Thank you,” Orpheus croaks and feels as though his face is going to burst into flames.
***
When she met Hades, Persephone had been visiting what was left of the last great city of the west. Factories breaking down and becoming overgrown by moss and vines, workers quitting and telling their foremen to go to hell, every café learning how to make tea on a fireplace as electricity became unreliable.
The nights were the most beautiful things she had ever seen, no stars to light up the sky but instead the warm orange light of a thousand homes, the rattle of the streets, people going about their days as if the world hadn’t ended a few decades ago.
She had met Hades at a bar, enthralling patrons with a voice deep as timber as he drank. Persephone had quickly joined them in being mesmerized by his talking, and managed to catch his attention as well. And then they both were drunk and merry, performing a ridiculously impromptu duet at the piano which certainly only sounded good to inebriated ears.
Hades moved in with her within ten months. For an industrialist as himself there was no work left to be done, and he had stuck out like a sore thumb when they moved to the countryside – a large intimidating figure clad in black and grey, rendered flustered by a new world of forests and smoke.
He looks just as flustered now, arms wrapped around himself and leaning against their fridge as he looks to be in deep thought. The rare moments where her husband is uncomposed are usually so charming, but in this case it is ruined by the young werewolf making his way down their stairs.
Orpheus comes downstairs wearing the clothes Hades’ borrowed him as well as his own red neckerchief. The lended clothes are several sizes too big and hang off of him like paper bags. When offered breakfast (strips of bacon with potato cakes) he awkwardly but gratefully says ‘yes please’ and proceeds to eat like a starved animal. When asked if he wanted coffee he instead asked if there was tea, and Persephone has a hard time envisioning this man shooting anything.
“I must ask,” Orpheus says melodically, “either of you two don’t happen to know how… how I got here? I should be getting home soon – my wife, she ought be worried.”
“You don’t remember anything?” Hades asks. Orpheus shakes his head slowly.
“Last thing I remember is having dinner. I don’t– where is this even?” Orpheus continues. His voice becomes tense, afraid, like a skittish animal. Before he had woken up, she and Hades had discussed what they should do. If he truly did not remember, that meant they now had the task of telling a complete stranger that he was sick with lycanthropy, and that the cause of this curse was the man sitting right next to him nursing a cup of coffee.
How would he even react? Would he believe them? Would he be upset with Hades?
‘I killed the man who did this to me’, echoes a story Hades told her years ago.
“I know you,” Persephone says diplomatically. “You work at Hermes’ bar and lodgings, yes? Singing sometimes, waiting other times?”
There is an instant shift in Orpheus’ posture, as if the mere act of being recognized offers such comfort. It is not impossible that he is terrified, woken up naked in the house of two perfect strangers with no recollection of last night.
“Yes,” he says softly and looks up at her. “Do you know the town by the broken down dam? I’m from there. I live there. Is it far away?”
“It ain’t walking distance,” Hades replies. There is a tinge of shame to his voice that a stranger such as Orpheus would be unable to pick up on, and even if he so did he wouldn’t know the reason behind it.
“I’ll give you a ride there,” he offers, and from the corner of his eye Hades quickly glances to Persephone as if to quietly add it’s the least I can do.
***
Out of all ways for her morning to go, the least expected turn is when Eurydice hears the distinct sound of a car approaching and sees an unfamiliar vehicle coming up the dirty road. It’s old with a flickering headlight and a small flatbed, and the moment it has slowed down to a decent pace Orpheus leaps out of it like a bat out of hell.
“Where the hell have you been?!” she half-laughs half-shouts as Orpheus hugs her and in a ramble says ‘I’m so sorry I don’t know what happened please forgive me’ but offers no explanation.
An unfamiliar man and a woman step out of the car and look about as confused as Eurydice feels. The woman offers her a small smile and waves in greeting, while the man only looks contemplative. Eurydice is reminded of the taxman while looking at him, from the simple clothes to the sullen expression.
“Hello,” she greeted experimentally. “I don’t believe we’ve met–“
“We have not, good day! You must be Eurydice,” the woman interrupted her in a smooth rich voice. “My name is Persephone, and this is my husband Hades. We will try not to take up too much of your time.”
With a blend of caution and hospitality, Eurydice invites the two strangers inside. The entire time she remains on guard and watches after Orpheus, as if he randomly will disappear from her again. When the older man speaks up it is in a shockingly deep voice that makes Eurydice shudder, it is almost comical how much it contrasts Orpheus’ and her own bright pitches.
He speaks in an apologetic and almost sad tone as he explains, beginning by mentioning how a month ago Orpheus was attacked by a beast. Eurydice at first thinks it perhaps is something Orpheus has informed him of, but then she sees that he looks just as confused and surprised as she is.
Neither of them believe the older married couple at first. The word werewolf baffles them and they wait for what he’s saying to make sense or for him to reveal it to be a joke, but then he points to the scarring on his face and Orpheus looks mortified.
Eurydice has trouble believing any of it until she sees her husband’s teeth.