Hey, Little Song Bird by Victoria O'Brien

Crystal snow filtered through brown leaves. They stood out starkly against her dark skin. There was no trace of his presence to be found. She lay curled, sheltered by the tree's roots. Her paper-thin clothing did little to fend off the cold. Her rust-colored hair was buried under ash and snow. She was as beautiful as they’d said. The kind of beauty you could write songs about, though most of his songs were about her “fire.” The snow didn’t shift underneath his weight as he crouched before her. 

“Hey, little songbird, give me a song,” he whispered. Not a twitch was seen on her blue-tinted lips or frosted-over eyes. There was no puff of white smoke escaping her lips. He had found the right person then. “I'm a busy man, and I can’t stay long.” He reached out and tucked a strand of limp hair behind her ear. Hazel eyes slowly opened and stared up at him. Good, she was up. She shot away from his touch as if it burned; it probably did. There was no telling how long she had been in the snow after all. “I got clients to call, I got orders to fill.” She wobbled on fawn's legs in a pointless effort to get away from him, or perhaps the form of the frozen woman before them. Her eyes ricocheted between him and the woman. 

“I got walls to build, I got riots to quell.” Her body felt full of lead as she tried to escape his milky white gaze. “And they’re giving me hell back in Hades.” He dusted off invisible specks of dust as he straightened.“Hey, little songbird, cat got your tongue?” He stepped over the frozen body and stood a hair’s breadth away from her. “Always a pity for one so pretty and young.” Wings the color of coal shifted against his back.“When poverty comes and clips your wings.” They rested behind him, barely grazing the snow. “And knock the wind right out of your lungs.” A line of white stitching stretched across his shirt. She couldn't tell what it was meant to be, but it looked like a gash tearing through him from jugular to stomach, paired with messy lines across his chest. A twisted image of a sword with wings, or perhaps it could be a butterfly escaping its cocoon. “Nobody sings on empty.” He tilted his head down at her, his gaze unblinking. He reached out his hand. 

Strange was the call of this strange man. He didn’t falter when she didn’t immediately take his hand. The tips of his fingers looked like he had dipped them in ash. He was handsome, but something about him made her skin burn. Despite how strange he was, she couldn’t help but want to be near him. Like a bird, she desperately wanted to fly down and feed at his hand. Her eyes flicked over him, dissecting every last detail. I want a nice soft place to land. Her eyes flickered behind him and to the woman on the ground. I want to lie down forever. The frozen woman lay so still. Familiar arms cushioned her head, as snow mimicked a blanket. 

“Hey, little songbird, you got something fine.” His hand returned to his side as he began to walk in a slow circle around her. “You shine like a diamond down in the mine.” Her clothes were made of thin cotton and a plethora of colorful patches. The breast pocket of her soot-covered overalls held a hand-stitched E in golden thread. “The choice is yours if you're willing to choose.” The circle of trees was bathed in shadows as he stretched his wings. “Seeing as you’ve got nothing to lose.” He gestured to her thin and frail body. His wing curled over her shoulders, blocking her sight and guiding her out of the circle of trees. “And I could use a canary.” Suddenly, nothing is as it was. She turned to peer over his wings, barely seeing the outline of far-off buildings. Where are you now, Orpheus? She peered down at the band of straw around her finger. Didn’t he say he would always be here? Wasn’t it gonna be the two of us? Calloused hands worked without a moment of rest just to give it to her. Weren’t we birds of a feather? 

“Hey, little songbird, let me guess. He’s some kind of poet-” he sounded detached. “-and he’s penniless.” Her voice was dejected but still fruitlessly fond. 

“Give him your hand, and he’ll give you his hand to mouth.” He cupped her face in his palms and tipped her chin up to meet his eyes. “He’ll write you a poem when the power is out.” Her smile failed to meet her eyes. “Hey, why not fly south for the winter?” He released her face to grasp her hands. “Hey, little songbird,” he reached down and slipped her ring off her finger. “Look all around you. See how the vipers and vultures surround you.” Faint scars marred her hands, and long, imprinted burns decorated her arms. “And they’ll take you down, they’ll pick you clean.” She looked up at him again, and her hollow cheeks and empty eyes met his. “If you stick around such a desperate scene.” The lining from where she had to resew her pockets was fraying again. “See, people get mean when the chips are down.” He took a step back from her, taking his warmth with him. He held out his hand again, while the other tossed the ring over his shoulder. She didn’t hesitate to take his hand this time, and abyssal fingers intertwined with hers. He unfolded his wings, wrapping them around her; they all but blocked out any hint of the moon and the plumes of smoke from just over the hill.  It was a strange sensation to be this close to a god, an even stranger sensation to be moved by godly means. When she opened her eyes again she expected to see the river Styx and Charon stretching out his hand to her for payment. She didn’t expect to see a giant metal train. The god who guided her here stepped away and seemed to be taking in the train himself. 

His face split open into a grin as he looked at her again. “Welcome to Hadestown.”