The Lyre and the Lord
A Journal from the Depths
Dark greetings, O tablet of endless reflections,
As I chisel my thoughts into your stone, I delve into the labyrinth of my mind—home to a little imp. Imagine a fiend: one part mischief, two parts pandemonium, aggressively whispering strange thoughts and sending bizarre compulsions that ricochet off the cage of my consciousness.
You know, it was actually my wife, Persephone, who suggested this idea, this introspective exercise of carving on an ancient surface. “It might unburden your thoughts,” she said, her wisdom cutting through my dark reservoir of thinking like a sunbeam.
Of course, I resisted her initially, but now I have her to thank for this daily ritual. Even though I refuse to let her know this, like most wives, she generally knows things. Take last week, for example, when we got a visitor. She knew exactly what to do.
You have to remember, our kingdom is a final destination for souls, not a wayfarer's lodge with breaking fast, so we generally don’t have to fret over being sparkling hosts. I had almost forgotten the protocols for hospitality, but Persephone, with the grace of a swan, orchestrated a welcome with an efficiency that reminded me why she reigns as queen. She ordered a lavish divan for our weary guest, Orpheus, the famed bard of Rhodope. The living world is a distant place, even though it’s right above our heads. And into our shadowed realm, the bard had sauntered, seeking an audience with Persephone and yours truly.
Initially, I had watched—simply as a sovereign intrigued—as this mortal minstrel had begun his descent. My realm’s shadows and whispers serve as my eyes and ears, and I’d witnessed how Orpheus wove melodies so sickeningly sweet they could rot teeth. He charmed Charon, the gnarled ferryman of the Styx, into a river trip that’s supposed to be exclusive to the dearly departed, mind you, and that’s when my irritation kindled. Because there Orpheus was, a living, ticketless freeloader.
But what really stoked the fires of my fury was Orpheus sedating Cerberus with his honey-dripped chords. My fearsome, three-headed dog, who was supposed to ensure that the obsidian gates of the Underworld were locked from the inside, was reduced to a snoozing pup.
That allowed Orpheus to traipse right into my throne room with an intro song so sugary sweet that at this, my laughter echoed, dark and deep.
The nerve! To stand before us, lyre in hand, with a presence so stark a contrast to the somber shades that usually graced our court.
“Great rulers of the Underworld,” Orpheus began, surfing over my sardonic amusement with a voice too full of life for the halls of the damned. “I come before you with a plea.”
He strummed his lyre and paused.
Now, I have to say that music generally grates on me. I prefer the sounds of fire and brimstone or screams echoing into the abyss. Given that, and all of the bard’s shenanigans with charming my subjects and taming my beast, I was ready to cast him into the fiery pits of Tartarus, my realm’s deepest and darkest dungeons.
Yet my wife beckoned for the bard to continue. “Let him speak, dear,” she urged, her voice a gentle command. She leaned forward, her curiosity piqued as if it was just so obvious to her from the beginning that the bard was a star.
Orpheus’s tuneful trickery began as a whisper, a gentle breeze that soon grew into a tempest of grief and love. His fingers danced across the lyre cradled in the crook of his arm, and he sang of Eurydice, his lost bride, taken by a cruel twist of fate on their wedding day. His words painted a tapestry of love unfulfilled—a future stolen—as she was bit by a viper on the way to the altar. For days, he had mourned, broadcasting his blues high enough to reach the heavens. And since shit rolls downhill, he dared descend to my realm, determined that all should recognize the misery of his loss, even those of us in the Underworld.
Then, the crescendo of my vexation: everybody was moved.
The song radiated and even traveled to the foul and festering parts of my realm, and things...stopped: the Furies, goddesses with hearts usually full of vengeance, wept; Sisyphus, forever condemned to push a rock uphill, took a break and sat atop his stone, awe-struck; Ixion, bound to a fiery wheel, stopped straining against his rolling torture to bear witness. What can I say? Everyone loves a love story unless you’re some kind of demon…
…In my stone-carved confession, I admit that I felt a rare flicker of empathy. Persephone is my anchor; without her, I’d be adrift in my own darkness. Centuries ago, I captured this woman while she was in fields of daffodils. I held her in my kingdom, and even though she was chained to the Underworld, she soon became the captor of my heart. I release her every year to go back to her mother, but once freed, she always returns to flip our fates: I, the feared ruler of shadows, become her plaything, joyfully ensnared by her every spank and flog. I guess what I’m trying to say is…never give up on your search for love.
Anyway, someone has got to be the enforcer. No matter how touched I was by the bard’s saccharine strumming. Rules are rules. “No souls are allowed to—” I began to say before my words retreated at the sight of Persephone, deeply moved by the bard’s performance. Scooched to the edge of her throne, her eyes—which usually held the calm of a moonless night—now glistened with intensity.
“Dearest,” she said softly, turning to me, “his love is true, as enduring as the River Styx itself. Can we not grant him this boon?”
Her plea almost undid me completely.
I paused, torn between the immutable laws of my domain and the stirring in my own heart. And a wry smile crept across my face as I sat back on my throne to reconsider. Love, it seems, makes fools of us all—mortals and gods alike.
“On one condition,” I decreed as I turned to face the bard. “Eurydice will follow you back to the realm of the living, but you must not look back at her until you both have crossed the threshold to the upper world.”
With a snap of my fingers, Eurydice’s opaque form appeared beside the bard. And Orpheus led her away, his face momentarily alight with a joy that seemed to soften the travel-hardened edges of his visage.
My omnipresence allowed me no respite from their journey; I watched Eurydice float behind Orpheus as he picked his way up a steep and gloomy path, struggling to find the way back to some kind of recognizable reality. But on he went, one step at a time out of the void.
Shades, as you know, aren’t prone to conversation. Talking is more of an activity for the living. Perhaps doubt crept into Orpheus's heart in that prolonged silence. Or maybe Orpheus thought he was in the safety zone. Whatever it was, when there was barely a step left to touch Earth’s surface, the bard turned around to gaze upon his lost love.
And it was then that I snatched back Eurydice’s soul. I know, I know…but rules anchor my realm, and even I am not above them!
I now realize how that sly minstrel's audacity played at the strings of my infernal soul. Orpheus, you with your lyre and your bold quest, played a game more daring than you know. A great musician, undone not by a beast or a god but by his own human doubt. And yet, in the depths of my being, a part of me still envies him. To feel love so deeply, to dare so greatly, even in the face of the inevitable. It’s a madness I’ve come to appreciate, if not understand.
Until the next soul stirs,
The Lord of the Underworld
Strings of Fate: Reflections Beyond the Myth
When I first stumbled upon this myth, it didn't quite resonate, despite my fascination with Hades—a deity often cloaked in misconceptions. Labeling the king that lay underground as just a shadowy figure lurking in his realm is easy. However, I see Hades as a multifaceted character, too often painted with just broad strokes of evil and morbidity.
Part of this projection is because, in the realm of mythic literature, Hades isn't as prominent as other gods. He isn't often featured in stories, allowing his elusive nature to serve as a canvas of sorts. I picture him as an introvert. Mysterious even. Yet fair in his own enigmatic way. He's not one to hand out favors freely but offers a chance to those brave enough to earn their desires.
Delving deeper, my view of the story began to evolve. Orpheus is blessed from birth with a divine lineage as his mother is one of the muses (usually Calliope, the muse who presides over eloquence and epic poetry), and his father is either a King of Thrace or the god Apollo. Basically, Orpheus is well-resourced from the jump, and with such a heritage, it’s hardly surprising that he has superhuman musical skills. Some stories describe him as playing the lyre so beautifully that nature itself—animals, trees, rocks—would sway to his melodies.
Like most typical romcoms, Orpheus gets the girl and, upon losing the girl, ventures to the Underworld to bring her back. And that’s a daring move because returning from the Underworld isn’t a thing people generally do. It’s a rare storyline that only a few heroes have been able to pull off. Yet Orpheus breezes through the afterlife with nothing but his lyre.
Then comes Hades, the first actual trial during Orpheus’s quest. If Orpheus can simply resist the urge to look back, he can reunite with his long-lost love again. But he fails at this crucial test of faith that Hades has given him.
This made me reflect on the tests of faith we all face, the seductive pull of doubt, and the human tendency to falter. I recall moments in my own life, most recently the aftermath of my divorce, where every step felt like a leap into the unknown. Resetting the major components of my existence–home, job, relationships–stirred a whirlpool of doubts and fears, akin to Orpheus's hesitance at the end. During my transition, I questioned if I was on the right path. I feared looking like a fool for making the wrong choice. And each step forward, even though I made my decisions based on my values, they felt like they bore the weight of self-destruction. Perhaps every choice did because that’s the essence of change, right? New beginnings demand a farewell to something else.
This period in my life has been a relentless test of faith. And I’m still navigating the aftermath of these changes, unsure of what kind of beautiful mess is waiting for me on the other side. But I do know that this story was a reminder of the constant practice of de-emphasizing my anxiety. That's ultimately what makes me worry and start to doubt things in life: anxiety. And worrying about how things will turn out feels like a complete waste of time—it feels like betting against myself. And why would I do that?
I hope that whatever you're going through in life, whether you're chasing dreams, navigating life's labyrinth, or holding onto hope in the face of adversity, remember: unlike myth, life seldom hinges on a single moment. It's a mosaic of chances. If you maintain your faith, life generally tends to shape itself around your aspirations in the long run.
May your journey be smoother than Orpheus's, and may your faith in your path remain unshaken.
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