“First then let us name Orpheus whom once Calliope bare, it is said, wedded to Thracian
Oeagrus, near the Plimpleian height. Men say that he by the music of his songs charmed
the stubborn rocks upon the mountains and the course of rivers.”

This will be the hardest task. Anyone who has been granted the gift of words by the
Muses knows how to tell of heroes, how to paint their traits and tales with simple
sequences of those signs that we call “letters”, and how to describe Heracles' strength and
Odysseus' tricks.
But how should I presume that my pen, though trialed and tested, could be able to
describe Orpheus' songs and poems?

He is the first of us. He is the first of my kin. First among poets, first among musicians,
not touched by the Muses, but borne by one.
I never believed I could hear his sweet voice and heart-breaking notes, yet I met him
during my first pilgrimage through these dead lands.
Then, I never believed that I would be so lucky to hear his lyre again, yet here I am,
following his journey through Hell.

Yes, I am Dante, and I walked the slopes of Hell, I have seen demons and angels, and I
was granted the honor of bringing news of them to the living.
But the greatest gift has been to be able to meet Orpheus' high soul not once, but twice.
We shall be forever grateful to him, and always suffer, as we listen to his lyre, for his
unbearable pain.

Everyone knows why he fights. Twice he lost Eurydice, once for his own mistake.
Not again. Never again. When Hell will have his new King, his voice shall be sweet as sin
and strong as fate, and next to him, shall sit a beautiful queen.

Life

Like Perseus, like Psyche, Orpheus ranks among the oldest souls in this cruel war.
The father might have been a king. It does not truly matter, for his mother is whence his
true nature comes: he is the son of Calliope, one of the Muses.
The Muses. Minor deities, compared to the Thirteen.
Objectively, it is the truth.
To me, they are as important as my own soul.

The life of Orpheus is shrouded in mystery. What is known to the living and the dead
alike, is his love for Eurydice, and the tragedy of it.

They were about to marry when a satyr attacked her. She ran away and fell into a nest of
vipers.
When her future husband found her, he played the mournful symphony of his pain, and
rocks and trees and birds cried with him, and even the gods high in the Ether wept at the
sound of it.
He traveled to the Nether, his lyre bending the borders between layers with the sheer
power of music.

Hades gave him back Eurydice, for even the sternest of the Thirteen was powerless
before that symphony of pure love and abysmal sufferance.
There was only one condition. He must not look at her until they reach the mortal world,
until she returns to life.
How hard it must have been to walk in front of his beloved Eurydice, trying to keep the
gaze straight, hearing her whispers behind at times, at times fearing, in the silence, that
she had perhaps disappeared again, yet resisting the urge to see if she was still there.

Orpheus resisted. They reached the mortal world, and the sun shone on the golden lyre
again, and he finally turned around to look at her. She was still in the shadows, and she
has not returned to life yet. Her cheeks were gray and her eyes were dark and full of
death.
He saw her, and for a moment, she disgusted him. It was only a heartbeat, then love
prevailed.
But she has seen it. His disgust wrecked her more than the bites of the venomous vipers.
She ran away, back to the Nether, away from him, away from the shame.

He died of grief shortly after, mad and broken like an abandoned toy.
I guess you can easily understand why he will not give up this time.

Regalia

A golden lyre, and a heart full of sorrow.
His voice is with him, and so is his wondrous mind brimming with music and verses.
Does the father of poets and musicians need more?