The Author

Aenid’s author awoke mere moments before the shining vermillion hue of Algol could seep into the windowsill, remembering once more, that his damnation had ceased to be eternal. His breath followed in the wake of his racing heart, and the decrepit scribe shuffled out of his bed of silk and other linens. With anxiety etched upon his grim visage, the Roman poet struggled to unfasten the locks on his rusty door. Frustrated, Virgil pounded on the iron knob with his cane, freeing himself from the confines of his own home.

Now old and apt to forget, the poet, with all his elderly might, ran forth. He was headed to the docks, for he had felt in his gut that something wrong would happen. Lined with dusty cobblestones and smoothened skulls of both the Damned and the Demonic alike, the avenues of the Damned Polis, hidden by a thick quilt of cold mist, greeted Virgil with not so much as a good morning. The poet turned left, and right, and in, and out of both the shadowy alleyways and the chapped bridges, as if following the erratic route would bring him to where he had hoped to be.

Because it was dusk, not a single Damned was awake to help old Virgil run, and even if there were, they would much rather escort the once wise and outspoken leader of the mortal rebellion back to the Hall of Kings than to any place farther than the town’s wet market, let alone the docks. It was true; his mind had slowly failed him. As such, so too did his lunacy fail the people of the Polis. But, on this very day, despite the poet’s enfeebled mind, Virgil felt something amiss. And so on and on he treaded.

Passing the large statue of the crusader-turned-poet Dante, whose hand held a cross that irradiated a calming bluish green light, Virgil arrived at the docks, where a lowly bard awaited the coming of the Demon Star. The young man’s platinum locks were quite disheveled, having been ruffled by the freezing winds of the coastline. His arboresque horns stuck out like two sore thumbs, tousling the musician’s hair even more. The young Greek lyrist plucked the strings of his instrument, composing a forlorn hymn that accompanied the solemn silence of the night. With an icy sigh, he withdrew his instrument and wrapped it around filthy rags, concealing his pale face within the large hood of his mantle.

“Where are you going, Orpheus, my son?” Virgin inquired, his voice crackling with the weakness that comes with age and the despair of an old soul who was afraid to be forgotten. Virgil stepped forth, but in turn, Orpheus backed. He could no longer live in the Polis, for the hope it once brought began to wane.

“You are not my father,” the young bard’s words were daggers to Virgil’s heart. Orpheus, who was through with his adoptive father/s inaction, scoffed.

“What did we do, Virgil? What did we do when Dante entombed the Lord within the Cocytus?” With contempt in his eyes, the bard took a step forward.

“While the demons dispersed like fools at the loss of their god, and our own men were at their most powerful, what did we do then?” He gripped the old poet’s shoulders, shaking him violently.

“While Eurydice waited for me, I stayed here, waiting for nothing! We should’ve done something the moment Lucifer froze. We should’ve voyaged—” it was then, at that moment, that Virgil slapped Orpheus hard on his right cheek. Shocked, the bard stepped back. Not a single word nor even a sigh escaped his crisp lips when Orpheus boarded his raft, until he pierced Virgil’s heart once more with one final glance.

“Eurydice and I will reunite, Virgil. Even if I have to brave the rest of Hell without you or anyone.”

“We did many things, boy!” Virgil interjected.

“We bolstered our defenses, built homes for the rest of the Damned. After years, Limbo became not a piece of this perdition, but a beacon of hope! Do you not see? When was the last time anyone felt that in this place? This is Hell, Orpheus. We have literally done the impossible.” He spoke in broken verses, accompanied by restrained coughs, sniffles, and heavy breathing.

“Please do not leave. There will be a time to escape, I promise you, but now—”

All Orpheus heard next were a loud thud upon the pavement and a splash. The cold waters soaked the bard’s rags. The poet, who was peacefully afloat in the water, gripped his heart.

The dim light of Algol peeped from the horizon, illuminating Limbo with a darker shade of day. The Demon Star’s light was no brighter than a mortal star when the bard fished his father’s figure from the waters, shouting, screaming, and pleading for the newly awakened souls to help. It was apparent then, that Virgil’s life had loosed.

The next morning, Algol lingered shyly behind the misty and mountainous verge of Limbo, reluctantly, perhaps, to show itself on a cold, crisp morning. A great crowd of souls, perhaps all of Limbo, gathered around the body of their figurehead who was then encased in onyx and glass. From Hippocrates to Julius Caesar, the souls paid their respects—all but one.

Guised underneath the greyish blue mantle, the bard paced hurriedly along the empty streets of the Polis, where the statue of Dante stood with cross unlit in accordance to the happenings. There, a smaller, unfinished statue of Virgil stood beside Dante. Orpheus resisted the urge to weep, instead brandishing his lyre and strumming the last song he played before Virgil visited the docks.

“Forgive me, father... for I have sinned.”

Orpheus began to increase the tempo of his song, walking quickly towards the empty docks.

It was finished.

He was finally free.