Hellooooooo, this is a short story I wrote a while back and randomly decided to share. It's inspired by RafScrap's cover of Hey, Little SongBird from Hades Town. Please give me constructive criticism I would be dead if it wasn't for spell check. Ok, ok I'll shut up Here is the story

Crystal snow filtered through brown leaves, it shimmered against her prone form. There was no trace of his presence to be found around. She lay curled, sheltered by the trees roots. Oaper-thin clothing doing little to fend off the cold. Her rust-colored hair was hidden by ash an snow. Lines of frost lay stark against her dark skin. She is beautiful, or well she was. The snow didn’t crunch or shift underneath his weight as he crouched before her. 

“Hey, little songbird, give me a song.” He whispered. Not a twitch was found within her blue-tinted lips or frosted-over eyes. There was no puff of white smoke escaping her mouth or nose. He 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 peered at him now, their pupils stretch to cover their color. Good, she was up. She shot away from his touch as if it burned, it probably did. There no telling how long she was in the snow after all. “I got clients to call, I got orders to fill.” She wobbled on fawns legs in a pointless effort to get away from him, or perhaps the form of the frozen woman before him. Her eyes richosheded 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 hare’s breath 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 rest 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 couldnt tell what it was meant to be but it looked a gash tearing through him from jugular to stomach paired messy lines across his chest. A twisted image of a sword with wings, or perhaps it could be the beginnings of a butterfly with sharp wings. “Nobody sings on empty” He tilts his head down at her his gaze unblinking. He reached out his hand to her. 

Strange is the call of this strange man. His hand remained extended before him. The tips of his fingers were bathed in black. I want to fly down and feed at his hand. Her eyes flickered all 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 colroful patches. The breast pocket of her soot-covered overalls held a hand stitch 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 sigh and guided her out of the circle of trees. “And I could use a canary.” Suddenly now is nothing as it was. She turned to peer over his wing, barely seeing the outline of fare 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 supposed to be the two of us? Calloused hands worked during every 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 sounded dejected but still fruitlessly fond.