Orpheus spends his days and nights singing. His project, if it can be called that when it's barely begun, is one that would change the world for the better—if he could only get it right. He knows it won't be easy. A song to fix what's wrong, bring back spring itself, would be a lofty task for even the gods to accomplish. But Orpheus is the son of a muse, her talent for music flowing through his veins and vocal chords alike, and he knows that if he doesn't try, nothing will get done. Someday, he vows, he'll get it right.
At least, that's what he tells himself as he holes up in the old train station, Mr. Hermes' kindness letting him stay the night since he can't afford a place of his own. It wasn't for lack of trying, but Orpheus has learned that he doesn't like being told what to do and how, and being boxed-in even less. He thrives in the open air, free like the wind, and his smile and charm are adept at bringing in food and water when music alone doesn't do the trick.
He sighs and crumples up the latest draft of his song, kicking it into a nearby wastebin. Orpheus believes the right inspiration is out there—he has to believe that, or it'll be for nothing—but where it will come from, and in what form, eludes him still. It doesn't help that he barely remembers what spring was like, wisps of warm sunlight and flowers drifting away in his memories like a half-recalled dream. What little he remembers isn't enough on its own, even with Mr. Hermes' prompting. The messenger god has shown interest in his project, and Orpheus is thankful that he doesn't see, or chooses not to see, the terror behind his bravado.
He surrounds himself with people in the meantime, faces blurring together with warm smiles, warming hearts, and full purses. When playing for the crowd, Orpheus is never alone and makes them feel alive for as long as he keeps singing, and if he's lucky he'll end the day with enough funds to buy a few meals. The time between songs gives him time to ruminate, time to think, and today he tries to focus on the why. If he can find why the world is like this, why spring and fall are gone, maybe he can figure out how to bring them back.
Instead he stares at a blank page, its emptiness mocking him. Orpheus groans in frustration, running a hand through his already-messy hair, and that's when he looks up and sees the girl. She comes in with the wind, sweeping his notes away and scattering his more promising drafts, but Orpheus is too awestruck to care. The girl meets his gaze, shrugs, and heads to a nearby table, and his heart beats faster the more he watches her.
In that instant, even the thoughts of his song are forgotten as he leaves his seat to approach her. He doesn't know how he knows, but Orpheus can feel that she is his inspiration, his own muse, and with her he feels he can do anything.
He can't let her go. He must take her home, even if this old train station is the closest thing to a home he has, even if his muse mother left him to fend for himself when he was eight. Orpheus plays on his history and his wants for the future, and acts as if they are his present day.
"Come home with me," he says, eyes sparkling with confidence. "I'm the man who's gonna marry you—the son of a muse."
She laughs in his face, something he's unaccustomed to, and asks if he has something to eat. He doesn't, at the moment, and likely won't for a while, but Orpheus only smiles wider. His musical talent charms anyone else he's met; surely it will win her over.
"I've got a melody, and I play the lyre better than anyone."
The girl only smirks and calls him a liar and a player; Orpheus is amused at her wordplay and, privately, a bit stung at how it hits home. He's had some relationships with girls, and boys, before—he still feels bad at how the fling with Calais ended—but nothing that would make either of them stay for long.
But this girl is different. With her Orpheus can see them living long, contented lives, and something in his ancestral memory tells him that no one will ever, ever make him feel like she does. She makes him feel alive, and for her, he must be better.
"I'm not like any man you've met," he says, and if it isn't true yet, he'll do his best to make it true. Orpheus elaborates on the project that has consumed his life—his lofty goal to bring back spring with a song, and as he describes it he can almost feel the sun warming their faces and birds chirping in the sky.
She laughs and calls him crazy, and he deflates. Maybe Orpheus should have expected that; he doesn't even know her name, and she doesn't know his. But he has one more trick up his jacket sleeves, has one last tactic to win her hand in marriage, and it might be the simplest, truest thing of all.
"Trust me," Orpheus says. "I'll make you feel alive."
And when she accepts his spur-of-the-moment proposal with a challenge of her own, eyes shining and daring him to keep his lofty promises, Orpheus can't help but smile. As they introduce themselves—Eurydice, and Orpheus—he feels like he's known her his whole life, and even before then. With Eurydice, Orpheus feels hope for his present and future, hope for spring and fall and all the seasons to be back in tune. He feels hope that his project will be finished.
What he doesn't say is that she makes him feel alive, too. But Eurydice, who knows him by heart already, understands.
