# Orpheus' Basilisk

\[This is an entry for lsusr's write-like-lsusr competition.\]

Content Warning: Everything you’d expect from the title, but in smaller quantities than you might imagine.

* * *

“You realize she’s not actually following?” said the Fate to the poet.

Without breaking stride, Orpheus turned his eyes[^vc5x35qm3t] to his interlocutor and sighed. “Perhaps. But what would you have me do?”

“The only thing you can do, and the only thing that could save her. **Look back.**”

“Didn’t you just say she’s not there?”

“Yes. But if you turn around, she will be.”

A pause. “You’re going to have to unpack that.”

“No-one has *ever* brought anyone back from Hades. By base rates, you succeeding here is fantastically unlikely: either you’re going to turn around, or you’ll find she was never following you in the first place. With probability of one minus epsilon, all you can decide now is the form of your failure. But the form of your failure *does* matter.”

“How?”

“Let me answer that question with another. Are the Gods superintelligent?”

Orpheus smiled wryly, and looked up[^fct0sn01izg] at the ceiling. “If you’re trying to get me struck by lightning, I’ll remind you we’re underground.”

“So you don’t know.”

“I know they often seem  childish, like humans might if granted their power. I also know mortals like me never seem to win against them, even in contests of pure wit. But whether it’s because they’re much cleverer than they choose to act, or because they wield the power to warp chance itself . . . how could I ever be sure they’re not just smarter than me, and playing the fool?”

“You could know that by the way your story ends. If you’ve already failed, it’s because you were tricked by an intellect far surpassing your own. But if she’s there, it’s because Hades let you both walk free without a backup plan, safe in the knowledge that something would happen to make you **look back**. And you get to choose the way your story ends.”

“Why would I choose a story where I turn around like an idiot and ruin everything at the last moment?”

“Because that’s a story about Gods which are merely powerful, not superintelligent. A story about antagonists who might someday be beaten, even if not by you. A story whose sequel’s sequel’s sequel could end with *everyone* getting to leave, you and her included.

A story where you get to see her face, one last time.”

Orpheus stopped. He thought for a while, and then . . .

. . . shook his head[^knib1xwxwfk]. “Nah."

“Firstly, giving up on something because it’s never been done before is inherently self-defeating, especially when you consider that everything that’s ever been done was once never done before. Imagine if all the hypothetical future people you want me to rely on to surpass the Gods thought the same way! Moreover, Greek civilization and culture has advanced a lot over the last few centuries; it’s legitimately possible that I’m the first person who can create good enough music to sing my way out of the underworld, while also being crazy enough to try.

Secondly, the data admits to other explanations. Perhaps I’m not the first to rescue my beloved, or the hundred-and-first; perhaps the Gods are regularly bested by mortals, and what seems like incredible intellect or impossible luck is them just being good at hiding up their failures. Or maybe there’s something else I’m not seeing.

Thirdly, attempting to use TDT-adjacent reasoning alone while under mental strain is inherently suspect, especially when it appears to lead to decisions like the one you’re pushing.

And finally, if we’re doomed anyway, I’d rather my last memory of her be the one where she heard Hades was letting us go. You know, instead of a look of utter horror and despair as she watches me trip inches from the finish line. Just speaking selfishly, I’d rather not carry *that* for all eternity.”

The other voice became pleading. “You’re making a mistake. You’re dooming the world, defecting against everyone, for a vanishing chance of a few short decades with one girl.”

“I’m in love,” said the poet to the Fate.

Orpheus finished his journey, and climbed out into the world. Then[^qzp4789w35], he sat down on the grass, leaned against a tree, and waited.

[^vc5x35qm3t]: just his eyes, never his head, because if he turned his head his eyes might flicker back before he could stop them 

[^fct0sn01izg]: not too far, tilting his head enough that a patch of cavern behind him entered his field of view might count as ‘looking back’, not a hypothesis it would be wise to test 

[^knib1xwxwfk]: not more than ten degrees in each direction 

[^qzp4789w35]: still staring straight ahead, into the setting sun