When the boy, Orpheus, set his sights out of Hadestown with his head held high, the king of the mines knew all he'd have to do was wait. It was like he'd said before; everything and everyone in Hadestown was his. Every soul working on that assembly line was under eternal contract, including the little songbird Eurydice, and they all belonged to him. In time, Orpheus would too.

See, the problem with fighting death was that you couldn't win. Oh, one mortal in a dozen might be able to give him the slip now and then, extend their paltry lifespan by a few more years, if they were lucky or clever or both.

But sooner or later, ready or not, eventually they'd find themselves at that lonesome train station with a one-way ticket in hand. And if the young man had stayed put up top, those suspenders would be traded in for overalls eventually, and that would be all they wrote.

But for Orpheus, who'd trespassed into the Underworld, seen and heard it with his own two eyes and ears, sang within its walls, the consequences were more potent than mere existential dread.

It was true that Orpheus's song had impressed Persephone, impressed him, made him truly feel for the first time in ages and left its imprint ringing in his ears and beating in his heart. As much as it grated on Hades at times, nothing could remove it even if he'd wanted it gone. It was a part of him now, and would always be.

But Hades knew the line went both ways.

Orpheus had walked free from the Underworld, that much was true. But while he hadn't given his name away, nor eaten anything to bind him directly to Hadestown, being there and breathing to its rhythm had a price. It meant that even after he'd crossed the threshold between death and life to return to the world up above, Hadestown would never leave him.

It rattled around his skull like a tune he just couldn't shake, not always pressing but always there, somewhere in the back of his mind. Flashes of a sweltering furnace that made Orpheus sweat in winter, and neon screens that made him shield his eyes in the dead of night. Sudden weight upon his bare shoulders like he was lifting rocks, and the feel of a pickaxe fitting his hands even though he'd never touched one in his life.

And for all the land of the dead deliberately lacked music, lacked voices raised in unison, lacked anything but foremen shouting orders and workers keeping their heads low, there was one notable exception to its rules.

From down below, with no effort at all, Hades' voice reached his ears.

He sang of building walls, and asked his children why they built them, and what they were built to keep out.

And at every line, Hades awaited a response.

And despite having seen the workers and their wall firsthand—despite knowing the flawed logic and even pointing it out himself, despite everything in him screaming not to respond—Orpheus could not stop himself from answering the call.

When he finally raised his voice, the words came to him easier than breathing, than playing the lyre. They were a part of him now, and would always be.

"We build the wall to keep us free," Orpheus finally sang, his voice mingling with the souls of the dead down below until they were one and the same.

And way down in Hadestown, when the rally concluded, the Lord of the Dead allowed himself a smile.

"An eye for an eye, young man."