“If you lead her coming out towards the light, she as shadow will revive.” The Pluto brought out Eurydice, Orpheus’ beloved wife whose life was taken by a serpent, then vanishing into the negative space, leaving a fleeting gleam to the living and the walking dead.
She was stiff already; the inconsistent way she toddled, the uncertain breath collapsing behind, her contour shadowy, all fragments welling up a barely visible velvet haze withered his eyes, making him wait, hesitate and walk. Patiently she a hollowed muppet pulled strings by the man, who played lyre for the mercy of Hades, waited, followed, and ghosted. Blood and darkness mixture covered their steps. Only Orpheus could see through.
“Her rusty shadow will unconsciously follow you until you look back.” The voices echoed, crumbling into his topsy-turvy mind. The roads so far so a stretching metaphor, to him, was liken to the hell flame licked his sanity. His heart was violent and mute.
Was she millions of spiderwebs torn asunder? Trillions of stardust misted? Zillions of floating pure venom coming into force only if he turn around?
He captured a ghost of tomorrow near the end of Underworld. His faithful epitaph dying through the longest shuffling, his discrete love hymn for Eurydice worn out; he sensed her as if he smelled an unwanted death. The light of living-being sneaked into his blurry view. Eventually, he ceased the rule.
Orpheus turned around. His finger tips edged her uncertain edge.
She was the beloved one.
“Who?” Eurydice’s numbing murmurs zipped back into the black ether.
She was stiff already.
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