The Burden of Happiness: V

 V.

Hermes descended from Olympus, a grim shadow upon his winged form. The singed feathers on his shoulder still smarted, a constant, physical reminder of Zeus's wrath and the terrible task he was now bound to perform. He found Sisyphus just as the golden hour began to bathe the mountain in a soft, forgiving light.

Sisyphus was nearing the summit, pushing his rock with the familiar, steady rhythm. As he reached the top, he let out a contented sigh, wiping sweat from his brow. Then, as always, he reached into his tunic and produced the small, wooden flute. He brought it to his lips, a gentle smile playing on his features, and began to play a simple, heartfelt melody that drifted across the quiet landscape.

Hermes watched, hidden in the swirling mists near the peak, a knot of dread tightening in his stomach. The music was innocent, beautiful even, a stark contrast to the venomous task he was about to unleash. He raised his hand, Hephaestus's insidious magic already swirling around his fingertips, humming with dark intent. As Sisyphus breathed a particularly sweet note into the flute, Hermes focused his will, channeling the divine command.

With a sudden, sickening shimmer, the smooth, polished wood of the flute began to twist and writhe. Sisyphus, mid-note, felt it change in his hands, growing cold, scaly, and alive. His eyes flew open in shock, his mouth still puckered around the instrument. In a terrifying instant, the carved wood transformed completely into the coiling body of a venomous adder, its head rearing back, fangs bared.

Before Sisyphus could even cry out, before he could recoil in horror, the adder struck. Its fangs plunged deep into his open mouth, a searing pain exploding through his jaw and tongue. Sisyphus shrieked, a choked, guttural sound that was instantly cut short as the venom began its work. The snake, having delivered its cruel blow, slithered from his grasp and vanished into a crevice in the rocks, leaving him alone.

Sisyphus staggered backward, clutching his face. His hands came away smeared with blood and glistening venom. His mouth began to swell almost immediately, his lips ballooning, his tongue growing thick and numb. He tried to scream again, to curse the gods, to demand answers, but only a gurgling, distorted sound escaped his lips. The agony was immense, but worse than the pain was the sickening realization: his voice was gone. His capacity for music, his only comfort, his defiant joy, had been brutally ripped away.

He slumped against the rock, tears of pain and utter despair streaming down his face, mixing with the blood and venom around his ruined mouth. He tried to push the rock, to continue his labor, but his spirit was shattered. The rhythm was broken. The solace was obliterated. All that remained was raw, silent suffering.

Hermes watched, a cold, heavy feeling settling in his chest. Sisyphus lay there, a broken figure, unable to cry out, unable to sing, unable to find comfort in his eternal task. The mountain, once filled with defiant music, was now steeped in agonizing silence. Hephaestus's plan was a cruel success. Zeus would be pleased. Hermes turned, his shoulders slumped, the image of Sisyphus's violated face burned into his memory. His report would be grim, but it would undoubtedly satisfy the Allfather.

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.