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She wore a saffron bandana incused with fine fiery motifs as a gaiter tight around her neck, over her nose and under her chin – so tight it was like a second skin growing from her neck over her face, her covered nose with no trace of nostrils, no trace of a mouth left appearing on her. Yet Orpheus felt he always knew her mouth, her lips beneath her concealing saffron veil – full yet delicate, beautiful as her beautiful deep and wide dark eyes reflecting light like a starry night sky.
He saw her alone against the sky – the clear and bright light of late afternoon shining through the window behind her, a sunspot at the Station’s bar he always found her resting in. She always covered herself in a thick winter coat, and she always carried a bag with her. A single pale white feather adorned her silkly black hair, and her starry dark eyes reflected the flickering light of the guardian candle lit on the wooden table between her resting cupped hands.
While bar patrons enjoyed themselves with pastries and cocktails she lingered at the corner, sat on a wooden chair on wooden tables by the window, always following and craving sunlight like a plant. She never lifted her saffron veil down, not even to eat. Yet she always seemed to be munching something beneath her mask – a tree root, perhaps –, her seemingly mouthless jaw relaxing and contracting in rhythmic steps, like a beating heart, as her candle’s flame rhythmically flickered between her hands.
Many times she just came here, at the corner where the sun through the windows shone, an eye at the sky through the window beside her, another at the candle’s flame between her hands. She never ate anything here, at least not when within Orpheus’ view behind his stand at the bar. No money she had to pay for food here, perhaps. Yet she seemed so tired and hungry, no matter how much the tiny candle between her hands warmed her up, no matter how much sunlight she soaked up she always seemed wilting, as if she was about to meet Death and take the Train to the Other Side at any moment.
Sometimes Orpheus left free pastries on her table, careful enough when she wasn’t looking – Hermes has taught him one thing or another about being swift. Orpheus hated the idea of seeing her starving, with no way to pay for any food, and not doing anything to help her up. He left sweet pastries by her side and went swiftly back behind his stand, watching from the corner as she noticed the free food suddenly on her table, as she glanced to all sides wondering from where this warm, fresh pastry came from – still she never lifted her tight veil down her face to eat anything here, taking her pastry and tucking it in her bag instead, then leaving the Station immediately afterwards. Orpheus only hoped she’d eat his pastry prepared with utmost love and care then, on a place safer and more comfortable for her to lift her veil if anything.
For many days and nights it went like this – her at the corner catching the last lights of each day, him discreetly watching her behind his stand as each day he nurtured a growing crush on her. He loved her silkly dark hair, her deep dark starry eyes, the way she always seemed to seek the sun like a houseplant under his care, the way she kept staring at the candle’s flame between her hands – with expectation, perhaps, or worry, maybe even wonder. He was enamored by the shape of her face highlighted by her tight veil, the way her jaw was so defined beneath the saffron cloth, the way her completely concealed mouth kept munching as if her own face was a beating heart. He caught himself biting his own lips so many times, distracting himself when looking at her and her tight saffron veil around her face, wondering about her mouth and her tongue and the shape of her lips, how they would feel against his…
“You wanna talk to her?” a voice spoke beside him, snapping him out of his daydreams. Beside him mister Hermes observed Orpheus with a sneaky knowing glance, as if he knew of his little crush long already.
“Yes” was all Orpheus could say.
Hermes' mischievous glance glinted in encouragement.
“Go on”, he said, as Orpheus hesitantly walked from behind his stand, towards the saffron-veiled girl.
He had no idea what to say to her. He has timidly observed her for many days and nights ago as she came here to the Station’s bar, yet he had no idea whatsoever about how this introduction to her would be like… He surely has daydreamed so many different scenarios – and in all of them he surely didn’t expect his hands to tremble like that, or his mind to be utterly emptied of any words left like that.
“Orpheus”, Hermes called back from behind the stand.
“Yes?” Orpheus repeated, sheepish.
Hermes raised his index finger, as if he was about to give a lesson of medicine and responsibility to Orpheus instead – as if he wasn’t practically pushing him to talk to his crush.
“Don’t come on too strong.”
He tried to not be so gauche and awkward as he approached the saffron-veiled girl at her table. He didn’t have much success.
“Come home with me.”
He heard all bar patrons snickering around him.
This is surely not what he expected his introduction to be like. But he got distracted glancing at her face again – her beautiful dark eyes deep with many constellations, the way her nose, chin and jaw were still so defined beneath her saffron bandana tight around her face, whatever trace of mouth she had completely concealed. He would not discover how her mouth was actually like ‘till he brought her home with him, made her feel comfortable enough to shed her veil to her side. He again got distracted wondering about her mouth and her lips, how they would feel against his…
“Who are you?” the girl spoke, surprising him as he was gripped back down to the real world. He gazed at the way her jaw moved up and down with each word, three quick contractions and relaxations like plucked notes on his lyre. And her voice. Her voice. If he got distracted hearing and seeing her talk with no trace of mouth at her face, he was not ready the slightest to see her lips beneath. Rather muffled behind the tight cloth, her voice was still so beautiful – shimmering in rosy colors like a thousand auroras, crystalline and bright as gleams of moonlight. It was the most beautiful voice Orpheus has ever heard. He wished to hear this sound always – to never stop listening to her voice, the richest, purest music to his ears.
“The man who’s gonna marry you”, he heard himself speak, enchanted and eager – he heard the potted plants and winds around him echo his words, just for emphasis.
“Come home with me.”
He wore his scarlet bandana with delicate black and white incuses as a gaiter tight around his neck, over his nose and under his chin – so tight it was like a second skin growing from his neck over his face, his covered nose with no trace of nostrils, no trace of a mouth left appearing on him. Yet through her memory waning steadily murkier Eurydice felt she still knew his mouth, his lips beneath his concealing scarlet veil – rosy and delicate like flower petals, beautiful as his beautiful river-green eyes beneath thick dark lashes, vivid and bright with many songs.
She saw him alone in the dusty dark, his long untidy waves of honey hair pointing to all directions, his lanky and gangly frame covered by a thick linen cloak. He seemed hurt and tired, throughout covered with soot and dust. Yet his chest was heaving – he was still breathing in this lifeless world, unlike her – and his seemingly mouthless jaw heaved up and down as his chest did as he caught his breath.
“It’s you” was all she could say as she was flabbergasted, her chin falling down her face.
“It’s me” he answered, and Eurydice glanced up at the way his jaw moved up and down gently with each word – steady yet soft, the jaw of a singer who avoided eating the flesh of living things. His voice was muffled beneath the tight cloth, but it still reached intensely to Eurydice’s ears – sweet honey washing over her, liquid sunlight kissing her ears and echoing deep through her mind, recalling memories she thought long forgotten as she slowly took hold of the world she left and the lifeless world she now toiled in.
“Orpheus!”, she called, struggling to believe it as she ran to his arms, hugging him tight – he’s warm. Soft and warm. She rested her ear on his chest, listening to his beating heart and to his breath as he fondled her hair with his soft, gentle hands.
“Eurydice” he answered above her, his muffled voice heavy with worry and affection. Even muffled his voice is still so beautiful – clear, bright and warm in a way it doesn’t fit with the dusty, dreary cold world here down below.
He’s alive. He’s here with her deep down below, but he’s still alive. He’s warm against her cold, frozen undead body. He’s breathing, unlike her; his heart is beating, unlike hers.
It cannot be real. It can only be a hallucination born out of her delirious undead mind as her remaining memories were gripped away from her mind. He cannot be here, as nobody can come down here still alive. She hugged him tight, fearing he might disappear at any minute, a product of her own delirious mind.
Illusion or not she was glad he was here, even if just as a hallucination born out of her dying memories. She clutched him tight – if she was about to relive her last moments, the veil of Oblivion temporarily lifted out of her mind, she would live them the most intensely she could.