having the rather breathtaking image of orpheus sitting in a tree, singing his song until apples grow and one drops down- and eurydice, directly underneath, smiles and catches it
let me write this ill be back
It's cold until he sings. Mist rises from the fields, ghostly silver upon the cold cold air. Cold air which always chills her through her coat through her skin to her heart, frostbite stretching beyond her fingers until it reaches organs themselves. She sits under her tree and watches the ghostly silver mist, presses her frostbitten hands against the ground, so hard that it scratches growling mouths into her palms. Palms that are so soft because if she cares about nothing at all, there's a kind of love there for her hands which she inherited from her mother like some kind of prized jewel.
The mist keeps rising steadily as he sings, a lark in a tree, perched high enough above her head with a high enough voice that it could be the calls of the angels which some call birds. She picks her mother's soft hands from the unforgiving ground, pressing them backwards at the wrong angle for her poor shoulders until they brush against the moss of the lark's own tree.
She thinks distantly that the moss should be frozen like her heart and yet... and yet it's soft under the growling mouths of her fingers and suddenly the lark reaches a crescendo and the mist warps softly into a harvest haze of pollen. The cold recedes from her frostbitten fingers, seeps out through the sleeves of her coat as she steams steadily into summer air.
The lark above sings still, the only constant in her changing life, so she hums along with him, hearing the smile in both of their voices. A rustle from the newborn leaves, a hand so warm, so warm because he holds the sun in his mother's palm. Her mother's palm isn't cold now, but however hard she tries, the centre crease is still lined with frosted mist.
Another rustle and she thinks the lark is falling towards her, but no, it's only an apple, blushed red like his cheeks and dewey with mist from her heart.
She catches it in her mother's palm like it was crafted just for her, and wonders delightfully if maybe it was. The apple crunches with her bite, cold in her hand, and finally her frostbitten heart cracks and the steam drifts from her a little stronger and she thinks that she might know what warm feels like.
And finally, finally, Eurydice can hear the love that lingers in Orpheus's - her lark's - song.
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