The Burden Of Happiness: III.

 III. 

Hermes, still flustered from his report to the Olympians, couldn't shake the image of a smiling Sisyphus from his mind. He zipped back down to the mortal realm, cloaked in invisibility, and settled on a cloud overlooking the cursed mountain. The air was still and quiet, the sun just beginning its descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple.

He spotted Sisyphus immediately, nearing the summit. The rock was immense, as always, and the mortal's muscles corded with effort. Hermes watched, holding his breath, waiting for the facade to drop, for the despair to resurface in the lonely twilight. But it didn’t. 

Sisyphus reached the peak, a genuine sigh of satisfaction escaping his lips. He leaned against the rock for a moment, not with resignation, but with a quiet sense of accomplishment. He scanned the horizon, taking in the sweeping view of the valley below, the distant glint of the sea. He stretched, cracked his knuckles, and then, before the rock could begin its inevitable descent, he did something utterly unexpected.

He pulled a small, carved wooden flute from his tunic.

Hermes nearly fell off his cloud. Sisyphus sat cross-legged beside the enormous stone, took a deep breath, and began to play. It wasn't a mournful dirge, or a defiant blast, but a simple, lilting melody, a tune that spoke of quiet contentment, of the beauty of the fading day, of the rhythm of life itself. The notes drifted across the mountain air, carried by the gentle breeze, harmonizing with the distant sound of the rock beginning its slow roll back down to the base.

Sisyphus closed his eyes, a serene smile on his face, lost in his music as his "punishment" continued its endless cycle. He played until the last sliver of sun dipped below the horizon, until the stars began to prick the darkening sky, completely unfazed by the looming rock.

Hermes watched, utterly dumbfounded, as the mortal, condemned to eternal torment, simply... enjoyed his evening. He had found a way to carve out moments of beauty, of peace, of self-expression, amidst the most crushing fate the gods could devise.

There was no trick. No grand defiance for an audience. Just Sisyphus, his rock, his mountain, and his song. Hermes let out a slow breath, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his own lips. This was going to be an interesting report.