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The shade flew down the familiar road. He was one of the few who has been here before, travelled this way and back, suffered heartbreak, cried by the slow river. Charon carried him back still living when all he wanted to do was sit there and cry at his own stupidity, at his own faithlessness, cry for his love and his betrayal. He raised her hopes, offered her life, made a miracle and then wasted it all because he couldn’t hold on; couldn’t keep looking ahead, couldn’t believe that she would follow. He cursed the Fates then and they did not take to it kindly.
And now that his living body has been torn apart, his limbs flung everywhere, his head floating on a stream of the Hebrus river, still singing even in death, his shade is released and is flying, flying down those passages, those places where he traversed armed only with his lyre, with his song and with his love.
He is looking for her everywhere, in every dark field full of wispy shades, in every corner, in every path and then he sees her, her shade standing there starring at him, not trusting her eyes, thinking him an illusion. He rushes toward her joyously, even though shades are not allowed joy, and tries to touch. And he can feel, feel even though shades are not supposed to feel and not supposed to touch but he can and they can be together! There is only joy in his heart, previous heartache and pain forgotten. They can now be together for all the days, just being in her presence is enough. He can even walk ahead and turn around and this time she will be there, just there and not whisked away.
He can’t speak for his joy but he does try to hold her hands. She looks incredulously at him and steps back.
“Is this a trick?” he hears. No, not hears, there is no hearing here nor a lot of talking. But he knows, he knows she is saying it.
“No! I’m here. I’m here now. I died. And we can be together now,” he says. He doesn’t say with sound but with his mind but she hears it and understand it. And takes a step back.
“You died?”
“Yes, it wasn’t pleasant. There was a frenzy. But it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m here and this time we can be together. No tricks.” He takes a step toward her again and she again steps back.
“How can I believe it? Twice I thought that I would be with you and twice my hopes were ruined. Once by a serpent on our wedding day, who didn’t let me give you my vows, and the second time when you came and you promised and you gave hope to the one so hopeless and then you looked back and I couldn’t go with you. I couldn’t live. I had that hope and it didn’t work. Why should I trust you now? How do I know this is not an illusion meant to torment me? How do I know that you would not take my hope away again?” She stands there with her eyes open with her hands behind her, so cautious.
And he, the poet, the one who had his way with words, where all the animals and trees and nature came to hear him, where even the ruler of the underworld could not resist his song, he has no words. How can he reassure her? He watched her die as she was walking toward him on their wedding day, he watched her disappear when he, faithless, looked back, unable to trust his fortune or the word of a god. What words can he use?
And so Orpheus begins instead to sing.
He sings of his love and her beauty and her kindness and her intelligence and everything that made him fall in love. Why he went to the underworld to get her back when his wedding hopes were dashed. Why he never moved on. And why, only now, in death, when everyone else loses their light and their hope, he is finally and more fully alive than he felt in a very long time. He sings.
All the shades around them, stop and listen and seem brighter.
Eurydice steps forward and takes his hand, as much as one shade can touch another. She looks at him and there is a glimmer of hope. It is enough. Orpheus smiles.