golden_lyre | The Drowning Fiddler

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eurydice

The Drowning Fiddler

The Drowning Fiddler is a little pub in Earl's Court that Orpheus has been visiting, on and off, for about two hundred years now. In more recent decades, the basement has been remodeled to double as a concert venue, and a number of bands who went on to be famous got their start on its cramped stage. Having spent a good deal of time and a good deal of coin at the bar, Orpheus has come to know the owner, Martin, well enough that he's occasionally asked to fill in for any musicians who back out at the last minute or on any nights when the stage isn't booked.

(Orpheus suspects that Martin keeps nights open when business isn't going well, so Orpheus can help him pick up the slack. Orpheus doesn't mind. He always puts a little encouragement to drink in his music when he plays. Martin deserves it.)

It's a Wednesday night, and though that's the Fiddler's least busy night in general, the room is packed. There wasn't a lot of time for advertising, but since the advent of social media (something Orpheus still can't quite get his head around), a few hours is all the notice needed to fill a room when he plays.

There's no amplification system because Orpheus never needs one, and there's no one to introduce him. He just sidles onto the stage, whiskey in one hand, cigarette in the other, and takes a seat on a wooden stool. As he settles himself (whiskey on an unused amplifier, guitar in his lap, still lit cigarette tucked between two strings), the room gradually quiets, but anyone still speaking comes to a hush when Orpheus starts to play.

He starts off with something quiet, something that feels like a Wednesday night, a needed breath of fresh air and freedom in the middle of the week. The room relaxes in the wake of it, as if communally exhaling in relief, and Orpheus smiles, loving the moment he knows he has the audience in the palm of his hand.

A quick sip of whiskey, a couple of drags on his cigarette as he retunes his guitar, and then he plays what they all came here to hear.

Something to dance to.

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Most of her classmates and teachers are now mostly used to the sudden appearance of the tall, handsome yet slightly scruffy man who makes Ree light up with an inner radiance that is nearly impossible to contain. They’d complain about his near constant presence except her dancing has somehow become even more meaningful and emotional, so they let what seems to be infatuation slide. Of course, it’s not infatuation, and now they’re used to the status quo.

Her weeks have a reasonably steady routine, and Orpheus has found one for himself to suit, and so she’s puttering around in what’s now their flat, wearing nothing but one of his soft and worn t-shirts as she sorts out their laundry. A tendril of ivy neatly growing in a pot reaches out to touch her arm, and she drops a kiss on a leaf as she works.

The knock means he has his hands full; jumping to her feet, she flings the door open, ready to help.

Both she and the cat pause.

“What’s that?”

Curry is taken from him but it’s the case she’s asking about.

Orpheus grins at the sight of her because that still hasn't gotten old, though he's mostly stopped worrying she won't be there when he comes home. Before he answers, he bends to kiss her, just at the corner of her mouth.

"It's a tuba," he says, managing the door and the cat and setting the case on the floor. "I saw it on my way home."

They share that worry, really. There’s that hint of fear that this happiness will suddenly melt away like ice in the summer. Just because it hasn’t doesn’t make the fear any less present. It’s just smaller and smaller with every day they spend together.

She loves those little kisses; not quite her mouth, not quite her cheek. More than polite but not enough to be dangerous.

“You saw it on your way home...” So, likely something musical. It’s simply how things are.

Okay. Okay, she can do this. A tuba. But what is a tuba? Ree eyes the case, trying to marry the shape and the word in her head. It looks like it could be percussive? Maybe?

Seph the cat winds her way around both their ankles before firmly rubbing her jaw along the edge of the case. It is their case now. She has claimed it.

“My English is not complete,” she admits. “I don’t think I know that word. What’s a tuba? And do you want wine with dinner? A patron dropped a box off at school and I somehow have two bottles of something red.”

Oops. It’s the only way she’s likely to get it; even the off-license don’t believe her ID. A tiny dancer will never be believed.

"It's a newer instrument. Even by mortal standards." Such a young instrument. "They evolved from the ophicleide," he pronounces the word as though it were actually Greek, "though that has largely died out." Somehow, instruments dying out is so much harder to take than the mayfly lives of the mortals around him.

"And yes to the wine. If you pour us glasses, I'll play you a little something before we eat."

His guitar is set on the stand he keeps near the door, and he takes the tuba case to the couch to open it, revealing a mottled-brass Wagner tuba. The instrument looks like it has seen better days, but there is a monogram embossed in the bell that suggests it was once valued.

That’s just the most precious thing. His enthusiasm is evident even in his sorrow at the evolution of one instrument into another. Mortals are forever changing things, there’s no getting around it.

The pronunciation gives her the etymology, though, and that... sort of helps?

“A serpent key?” There’s a delicate floral scent from her hair as she turns and heads for their kitchen, grabbing the first two clean drinking receptacles she can find. Wine is poured into a novelty Nutella glass with Rugrats printed on it, and a chipped mug with cursive script reading ‘just dance’, and both are tucked into the crook of her arm as she rummages for forks. She doesn’t like the plastic ones. “That sounds either dangerous or erotic, and neither look like they’ll come from that case— oh!”

Not at all what she’d thought it would look like.

“I was imagining a drum, I don’t know why. Play it!”

He gets the mug, if he’s curious. She sits directly on the floor in front of him, eating with not even remotely concealed excitement

Orpheus takes the mug and has a sip before setting it aside. As he pulls the instrument from its case, he trails a finger along the curling brass. "It's a snake," his fingers settle on the valves, "with keys."

He settles it into his lap and picks up the mouthpiece to slot it into place. "This particular style of tuba was made for the great Richard Wagner." Almost certainly one of his mother's favored mortals. "He commissioned an entire instrument because there was a song in his head that couldn't come out any other way."

Orpheus grins at her, delighted by the ingenuity of mortals. Even mortals who've been dead over a century.

After a brief contortion of his mouth to loosen the muscles, Orpheus plays a few notes to tune the instrument, then settles into a song. It's delightful and ponderous at once, like an elephant prancing on its toes or a dog that doesn't know how big it really is.

It's short, but it gives him a good feel for the instrument shows off what it can do.

A snake with keys. She sees it, now. Eyes wide with wonder follow the reverent path his fingers take over the precise and oddly delicate curves of the instrument. Air, she decides. And rather a lot of it.

As Orpheus makes a face that suggests similar stretching of his mouth that she uses for her body, she realises she’s right, and is excited to hear what the coiled metal will sound like. Wagner is a clue. Still.

The expectant silence in their flat is all but palpable; Eurydice, Seph, and a plethora of plants all waiting to hear Orpheus and his tuba.

It’s an utter delight. Seph ventures closer to Orpheus as he plays, drawn in by the man and his music.

“He sounds like a stately old gentleman taking to the ballroom floor with all the sprightliness of youth still in his feet,” she sighs happily.

Orpheus grins as he sets the instrument aside. Playing for her, seeing her delight in his music, it never gets old. "Yes, exactly! Wagner was good at that. He was good at a lot of things."

He touches the bell gently, like stroking a kitten's head. "This one needed a home." Eventually, he'll find someone to take it. Orpheus doesn't adopt instruments so much as foster them. Someone needs this tuba, and this tuba certainly needs someone.

Opera. She’s pretty sure he wrote opera. And probably a lot of other things, if he had his own tuba.

The look on her husband’s face as he gazes at the old instrument is one of her favourite things. Seeing his passion in front of her fills her with joy.

“Only you would spot a needy tuba,” she grins, raising her silly printed glass to her lips and taking a mouthful of what is actually quite good wine. “I’m only glad you haven’t spotted a needy pipe organ, or we’d have to move.”

Orpheus picks up his mug and has a sip as well. His smile is lighthearted and easy, as it is whenever she is so joyful.

"I have never brought home a pipe organ. If I spotted a pipe organ that needed someone, I suspect I'd buy the building it was in, instead, to save the trouble of moving it." Retuning pipe organs is such a hassle.

"Then you could have your own studio," he adds thoughtfully as he reaches for the takeaway bag.

She holds out a fork for him.

“Aren’t they usually in churches?” she asks, then inhaled happily at the fragrant aromas coming from the bag. She hadn’t bothered with plates, much preferring to stick a fork in whatever catches her fancy in the moment. “Or university halls. I don’t know if you could buy either of those. Though I don’t object to a studio. There’s not much room here.”

"You'd be surprised at how many old churches are being sold because they can't afford the upkeep." Does he sound gleeful about this? Maybe. A little.

Okay, a lot.

"And wouldn't you like to host an orgy on the altar of an abandoned temple to the chaste god?" He grins, delighted by the idea, and looks around the space as he starts unpacking the food: curry, rice, and a tandoori fish. "But even if we can't find a church, we could certainly get a bigger flat."

“Hunh.”

It’s a thoughtful sort of sound. She hadn’t realised that. His glee is amusing, and she quirks a smile - and it becomes a laugh at his suggestion.

“I haven’t been to an orgy in thousands of years, so why not there— oh, you got the fish!”

Eurydice loves tandoori fish. The spices, the smoky baked flavour... greedy little hands snap the lid off the container and her fork goes straight in.

“Not yet,” she shakes her head around a mouthful of deliciousness. “Katie has no one to take Jonah to nursery on Wednesdays. I can’t leave her like that, she’s been so good to me.”

"I'll keep an eye out for churches going up for sale." He likes this idea now, and he's determined to make it happen sometime.

He watches her excitement over the fish, drinking it in. He may never get away from the need to savor every moment, every emotion.

"We could get a house, then. They can come with us." That's a thing people do, right? Just ask neighbors to move in? Katie and Jonah are part of the household, so why wouldn't they?

She hasn't quite cottoned on yet that he quite literally means that about the church, and instead gives him a grin around her fork. It's a fun idea, really, and those old churches are always so pretty with their high ceilings and coloured glass. If she has to blend in by living in a building, it's not the worst they could do.

Spearing another piece of fish with her fork, Eurydice climbs up onto her knees to hold it to his lips.

"Could we really?" she asks, eyes wide. It is not a thing people do. But it is a thing she would very much like to do. "Only I know she'd be so much happier with someone here to help raise Jonah and she loves to cook and he thinks you're magical and I do love them so could we? She's been like a sister to me."

Taking the little Greek immigrant on a dance scholarship into her heart while working a full time job in ER with a small child and no partner, Katie is on a mighty high pedestal in Ree's eyes.

He's in no rush to do it, but it's definitely on the infinite bucket list now. They may have to start collecting open-minded friends so they can do it properly when the time comes. He's thinking a catered, exclusive party. On Easter, maybe.

He leans forward to take the bite, smiling around it as he chews. Somehow it tastes better after watching her eat it.

"Of course! I don't know why not." He has not yet spun out the implications of this arrangement and how he'll have to start wearing clothes. At any rate, it's a temporary situation. How long can it possibly last? Fifty years? (How long do mortals live these days, anyway?)

"Hmm...we may need a bank account. I haven't tried buying property since that was standard." He thinks an estate agent wouldn't take well to a briefcase full of cash.

There's no rush to do anything, really. But if he has a list, then that's not a bad thing to be on it. And once the date becomes known, she'll have a quiet giggle about it. She's fairly sure that the son of the chaste god was a good guy who wouldn't have minded a night of drinking, merriment, and joyous sex without censure or judgement. It's his dad who would have taken issue. And the priests.

She smiles as he takes what she offers. She loves to feed him, to take care of him in as many small ways as he'll allow. Tiny intimacies anchor her in this new life where they're together again, and she's missed the flecks of colour in his irises, the way light hits his lashes, the lift and curl of his lips in expression and motion.

"Good! Because I think she'd be less stressed. Mortals are always stressed. This modern world is doing them no favours."

(She has no idea. Maybe 80 years? Maybe 100? She'll be eternally youthful - eventually she'll have to use makeup to look older, until they drop out of society when she 'retires' from dancing.)

A mouthful of rice is chewed with slow enjoyment as he continues, and she nods thoughtfully.

"I have one," she tells him, "We can share it. I think. I'm actually not too clear on that... wait. Do you have ID?"

Because he's three and a half thousand years old, and there is technology, now.

Every care she takes with him chips away at the lingering doubt that this is real, that he's not finally gone mad. He shifts to sit with her on the floor, watching her eat and occasionally remembering to do so himself.

"The world has never been good to mortals without money or influence." It's been great to those with both, but Orpheus has now spent much more time on the other side of the wealth divide, and he's come to appreciate it much more. "And you care for them, so we'll do what we can to ease their lives."

He shifts again, so his leg is pressed against hers, a grounding touch, and he pinches off a bit of fish to offer the cat. "I do have ID. They don't let you fly without it anymore." He has a guy. And when the guy dies or retires, he finds a new guy.

If he has gone mad, then he's in good company.

Eurydice smiles happily at his concession to her familial love for her neighbour, and wriggles closer so the whole side of her thigh is pressed against his, increasing the contact he'd initiated. Seph delicately takes the offered fish, eating with a daintiness that is ever so slightly unnatural.

"Oh, right." That makes sense. Another mouthful of curry is savoured, the spices warming and fresh. "Where were you before London, then? And how long were you here before we found each other?"

She's curious. Pressing about his past prior to her reappearance is not her goal, but she wants to know who he was in the intervening millennia, and it will help them both to adapt to their new life to have shared memories.

Orpheus is perfectly happy to eat one-handed if it means he can slide an arm around his wife and lean into her side. "Before London was New York, and before New York was Paris. I've been in London...ten years now? Fifteen perhaps?" He tries to move on before people start to notice he's not aging. Martin's noticed, he's fairly certain, given how long he's been playing at the Fiddler, but one of Martin's greatest features is that he doesn't ask questions. "It's not my first time through."

He turns his head to press a kiss to her shoulder. In time, he suspects, he'll tell her all his stories, all the ones that matter, at least, even the stories of people he's loved. It's good to start small, though, and he wants to know about her as well, as much as possible, as much as there is as well. It's as though they're meeting each other for the first time all over again.

"What about you? You came for your dance school? Tell me of your mortal family."

If it's snuggling he wants, it's snuggling he'll get. Eurydice is very, very happy to be held by Orpheus in any and all ways, shapes, and forms, so she's quite content to lean into him in turn as they sit on the floor and eat.

"I'd like to dance in New York," she admits, abandoning her fork for a moment to pull apart another piece of fish with her fingers so it can cool down a bit before she gives it to Seph. "Just so I can take the pretentiousness down a notch."

She watches all the SYTYCD shows. She has Ideas with a capital I.

"You must have seen so much..." Rice and curry are loaded onto her fork, and her cheek nuzzles his hair at that kiss before she takes the bite.

Her mortal family. Quite literally the gods alone know how she was inserted so well into their lives, but she was.

"Five brothers," she starts. "Jace, Nik, Alekos, Vlasis, and Christos. I'm between Nik and Alekos, Vlasis and Christos are twins. They did an excellent job of guarding me from all the boys at school, you'll be pleased to know."

It should be such a small thing, to have his wife nestled in the crook of his arm, but it's everything. He reaches across her with a fork to taste the curry, and he kisses her cheek as he goes.

"You would set the city ablaze, my love." He grins to think of it, of such a stage for her to stun the world upon. "And I think it would mourn you when you left." There are places in New York where he can feel the loss of an artist the city loved, regardless of how many decades have passed. "We can live there for a time, and I can show you what I've seen, and we can discover more together."

He has seen so much, and he wants to see it all again with her at his side.

"Five?" He laughs. "Gods, I'll be sure to thank them as they attempt to guard you from me, no doubt."

It really is everything. Just to have him nearby is exhilarating. His scent lingers on her sheets, his music and instruments nestle among the plants and coffee cups of her flat, he's in every part of her life and it's all she wants.

"That sounds amazing, honestly," she tells him. "And you'd play, of course, and we'll be ridiculously eccentric because mortals are weird."

Travelling the world with him is a dream she never thought she'd be able to fulfill, and now that the world is so much bigger than they'd thought when they'd first met, the opportunities are endless.

"Yeah, five." She grins. "And they will. They'll take one look at you and demand to know your intentions, and then Nik will probably want a guitar lesson, and Jace will just watch you with suspicion, and Vlasis will make you the best baklava you've ever eaten and the twins will make you play football, and my parents will just sit and watch all this with a serenity that can only come from raising all those boys, and a nymph they thought they'd always had."

It's raucous and loving and wonderful, and she misses them. Her brothers are all dark haired, taking after their father. The gods chose a mother with hair of a similar colour to Ree's own, and two of the boys have her wild curls. It was well chosen, and no one in the family or their small village knew that she wasn't at all what she seemed.

Spinning dreams like this is enough to make him giddy with possibility. Even more than when he was a prince of Thrace, he has the ability to make her dreams come true, to lavish her with anything and everything she wants. He's used to living humbly only because he's never had a reason to do otherwise.

"A power couple, is what that's called, I believe. All the Upper West Side elite would invite us to parties to show off that they knew us." It's been a long time since he's let himself be the toast of any town. Not since travel between them became so easy.

He laughs at her description of her family. "Well, I'll handle Jace with a song. And I will tell them all that my only intention is to make you happy for the rest of eternity." He catches her hand and leaves curry-scented kiss on her inner wrist.

"Or do you think they'll expect a wedding?"

"Will we use our powers for good?" she asks, "or for evil?"

There's a smile in the question, disappearing around a mouthful of curry, and it bursts forth again at the kiss he drops on the sensitive skin of her wrist. Her vein is greenish beneath the skin, and his lips leave a lingering warmth there along with a slight stain from spices.

"They'll demand it, to be honest. You'll have compromised my virtue or something equally old-fashioned, and modern Greeks don't really pray to our gods anymore so they don't know any better," she tells him. "Why, are you proposing a renewal of vows-- wait. Orpheus, we're married and I don't even know the last name you use."

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