In the bottom pits of hell, there lives a man curled up and eyes showing centuries of suffering and torment. A Voice calls him from behind" Come to me, look behind…" tempting him but he resists with all his might.
This man — the one curled in the dark, fingers raw and eyes hollow—is none other than Orpheus.
His first breath was a note so pure that even the Fates paused, uncertain if this infant should be bound by their thread. Born of a muse and kissed by Apollo
And the voice calling him is his beloved wife,
Eurydice who sadly passed away on their wedding day.
This is his eternal punishment, to be forever trapped in this dark prison with his dead wife's voice calling for him but never will he be able to meet her, It echoed in every corridor of his mind, a slow-dripping madness. He had long stopped crying; tears had dried into salt long ago.
Then came the sound of sandals — not thunder, not trumpet, just measured, clean footsteps — a servant of Apollo, robes unsoiled even in Hell.
The servant looked down at Orpheus not with pity but with the same cold revulsion one might reserve for a once-great statue, now crumbling and soiled with rot. "The god you once called father," the servant said, voice sharp as sunlight, "wishes no part in your misery. But your stench offends Olympus.
You will be cast out — not as mercy, but exile." Orpheus tried to lift his head, but it lolled like dead weight. The servant knelt, grabbing his face with disdain. "You will crawl among filth, in the body of a bastard child born to no name, no future, no hope." And without ceremony, without blessing, the servant plunged a blade of light into Orpheus's chest —
and he fell, not rising, but falling, into the skin of a dying boy on a street slick with rain.