Orpheus, not a god but not exactly a regular human, stays bound by his own music spell for another moment, smiling up at the leaves in the air. When was the last time he’d seen leaves like this, red and gold, just starting to crisp where they’d fallen? He’s not sure. Time is a strange thing, hard to hold onto. There’s faint memories of before, but by design, he largely lives in the present moment, drawn along by a design none of them could really see.

When he blinks and drops his eyes, he sees a familiar figure, dark and shining all at once, a stark reminder of the industry of the city named for him.

Orpheus’s hands stop moving. The music lingers in the air for a moment, the leaves frozen where they are before they fall again, gently, as if reluctant to let go of the boy and his song.

“Hades,” he says, without reverence. It figures that where Persephone is, Hades must follow her, seek her out. He’s hesitant to move. This isn’t Hadestown, but Orpheus isn’t naive enough to imagine that the gods have no power here.