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Calliope had never wanted to be a mother.
In all honesty, she was too busy for it. She had Muses to look after, Apollo to report to, epics to compose, eloquence and inspiration to bequeath and take away from mortals.
This does not mean she did not love her son.
Gods, she loves that boy.
How could she not? How could anyone not love Orpheus, her beautiful boy, her kind, hopeless little dreamer?
Calliope loves that boy. She gave him his voice. She gave him more than she intended to, but she loved him so dearly she felt no urge to give him any less. She cared not for his father though, and had so many duties.
And, how does Hermes say it? You know how those Muses are.
Still she watches. She loves him, so she watches. Hermes guides, not just watches, which is good. He is—mm, theology, she is bad at it, she knows what he is to her yet can never say it instead of sing it, and he certainly keeps none of it in his head, so.
Hermes is a friend of hers. And he is fond of Orpheus, endlessly. Orpheus has a way with words. Her way with words. He remains silly into adulthood, as he grows into his long limbs and his voice smoothens, which makes him a delight to watch.
Until, well.
"Oh," Calliope says for the tenth time in the hour.
Lord Apollo stops strumming his lyre. They had been attempting to compose a new legend to bequeath upon the poets. Calliope cannot seem to keep her mind on it. "Wonderful Calliope, what has my Muse so despondent?"
"It is nothing…" Calliope hedges, then says again, horrified, "Oh."
Lord Apollo frowns at her, then his expression clears up. "Little Orpheus has met the end of his fate, hasn't he?"
"He is not so little anymore," Calliope says sadly. He was so cute when he was little. "He is a man, no matter his limited years. And his tale has ended. It is so sad."
Apollo hums. "Is it?"
Calliope says, "Yes. He is my son, and he was so precious as a babe. So talented as a child, so beloved as a man. He got his habit of absence from me, you know, my Lord. His obsessions. His hope."
"Divinity never leaves a half-god untouched." Apollo begins to strum his lyre again, humming a half-tune, eyes going half-lidded. La, la-la la… "His tale has not ended, however."
Calliope hums the rest, La la-la. "It has not?"
Apollo cracks a golden eye open. "You are the Muse of epic poetry and eloquence, no?" He nods towards the Earth. "Go. Sow inspiration in the hearts of the mortals."
"And his tale shall never be over," Calliope gasps. "He can live on. Endlessly, forever, he can try again and again and again."
"As long as he stays unforgotten, yes."
"My Lord, Shining, Healer, Averter of Evil, Rescuer," Calliope praises, fervently, and kisses both his cheeks, touch scalding, inspiration burning her from the inside until it has nowhere to go but out, "Thank you, I must—I must go—"
Apollo laughs. "Go! La—"
"La, la-la la la la-la," Calliope completes, and then she goes. She sows in the hearts of poets her son's story, and she allows them the words to say it. To perfect it. The song:
La, la-la la la la-la.
Orpheus' tale is never over. Calliope gets to watch him again and again. Across the eons, his tale stretches, is sung, is repeated. His lyre is replaced by a guitar. An uglier instrument. She allows it regardless.
It takes an age for her to consider that watching is not enough.
She visits on a warm spring morning and finds him laying in the grass. He looks ill. His story ended a year ago, and he is living in the after for now. He seems hollow. He is alone.
"Oh, my poor baby," Calliope mourns, and kisses both his cheeks, sets his head in her lap and strokes his hair. He does not stir. He looks gaunt. "You can die now. You can see her, you can. Your story can continue, Orpheus can try again, but you, my son, will be with her. You can be with Eurydice. You shall open your eyes never again."
At her words, the hair between her fingers turn into flower stems, his body turned brilliant red petals. Calliope holds them for a little in her lap, pretends they're her son. Then she carefully shakes them off and goes to find someone who will bury him.
Calliope hums at the gate of the Underworld.
It's an old song.
"Mother!" Orpheus is nervous. Anyone with eyes can see it, and Calliope has more than eyes. She is a doe, today, except is far larger than is usual. Orpheus begins to run to her, then slows into an awkward jog.
Calliope descends to the Underworld, as she can, because Persephone summons her at times, so she is no longer so policed.
Orpheus' song is scrambled within him, the notes harsh on her ears. Orpheus is nervous.
"Mother," Orpheus repeats, stopping once he reaches her. He bows his head, then laughs in embarrassment. "Sorry. I, ah. I have someone for you to meet."
Calliope looks behind him. There's a lovely lady lingering in the shadows. Her hair is ink black, her eyes hard as flint.
Eurydice, Calliope greets.
"You…know me?" Eurydice clears her throat. "Mother…in-law? Mother?" Her voice breaks on the o both times. Calliope says nothing about it.
Daughter, Calliope says. Come.
Eurydice hesitates. Her gaze slides to Orpheus, who looks torn between the two for a moment before murmuring an apology and rushing back to his wife's side to bring her to the light.
Hand-in-hand, side-by-side, for once.
"Mother," Orpheus says, hushed. The word is still clumsy on his tongue. "I…um. This is…"
Eurydice.
"Eurydice." Orpheus smiles thinly. "Please, tell me you like her. Eurydice as well."
Calliope likes this song.