#orpheus’s hair is impossible to draw in motion.

[lostdathomirian]

somewhere in the house of hades, the court musician dreams of bringing his muse home again.

[badgerwrites]

Chapter 4

Previous Chapter: The guest's dreaded arrival was heralded not by cool boss music, as Rowan had distantly hoped, but by the grating sound of tires on gravel. Her room's charming little round window framed a small white car braving its way up the hill where the house was perched, gleaming like seafoam in under the jolly midday sun.

Like Orpheus preparing his descent in Hades' realm the girl steeled herself for the trial to come. She hopped down her bed and swung open the door of her room (she liked to think of it as her dramatic supervillain entrance if she were in a movie. It gave her a mild confidence boost, at least) before dragging herself down the stairs.

Her aunt was already at the door chatting with an elegant dark-skinned lady.

"-you've done a spectacular job with your sunflowers, Yasmin!"  "Oh, you flatterer you~" said  Rowan's aunt with a giggle, "I do my best! You and the little one both look positively radiant. Speaking of-"  Yasmin swirled around and beamed at her niece.

"Don't be shy Rowan, come say hi!"

Obligingly Rowan shuffled forward where her aunt introduced her to her friend (Simone) and the latter's hitherto obscured daughter Ava: a bright-eyed, bouncy creature with a bright smile even Rowan couldn't help but find a little charming. As soon as they locked eyes her grin widened, revealing a little dimple in her cheek.

"Hello! You must be Rowan, right? I've heard so much about you!" "Only good things, I hope." Rowan awkwardly rubbed the back of her neck, offering a tentative smile. "Duh! Yasmin told my mom you're like, super good at drawing and stuff. That's so cool!"

The young artist couldn't help but puff up a little at the compliment.  "I mean, I'd say I'm decent. Errr, I could show you, if you want..."

In the corner of her eye she saw aunt Yasmin swell with pride and give her a coy wink before clearing her throat.

"Simone, why don't we old fossils leave the youngsters alone? I made us tea, we can chat in the kitchen. Besides, I so wish to know what has been going on with you and Patrick lately!"

The distinguished lady chuckled and left with her friend. Yasmin pinched her niece's cheek one last time and asked her to show Ava around the house before walking away.

Dutifully she led Ava out in the garden, showing off the tomatoes and delicate buttercups dotting the yard. Then they headed into the basement, which was as new to Ava as it was to her guide, and unearthed a series of well-loved board games of decades past.

"We should totally meet and try these sometime!" Ava had chirped as she showed off  an mysterious old box with a faded dragon on it. It did sound like a good time, and under the sway of the new girl's enthusiasm her companion couldn't help but agree.

Finally they made their way into the upper floor and settled into Rowan's room. At Ava's request she grabbed her sketchbook and sat at her desk; motioning at the other girl to stay put. Rowan flipped quickly through the pages to find her latest and proudest work: a pastel landscape of the sea.

Before she could find it however a hand abruptly grabbed her arm and yanked her back to peek over her shoulder.

The suddenness of it all sent Rowan over the edge. She frantically twisted around, slamming her hand against the other girl's solar plexus to shove her away.

"Don't fucking touch me." She snarled, heart drumming in her ears. "Don't you ever-"

She stopped. 

Ava coughed, beating her fist over her heart a couple times. She straightened, shook her long mane of hair as if to clear her head; then cautiously looked over to her still panting aggressor. What she saw in her was impossible to tell, but ever the peacekeeper she tried to flash her a somewhat nervous smile as her eyes unconsciously darted to the door.

Hot, unbearable guilt rose in Rowan. She tried to apologize, to explain herself, but the knot in her throat sealed her windpiper shut. She hugger her arms to her chest and stared at the floor as she tried to pull herself together.

Ava cleared her throat. "Ahem, are you... okay?"

The small bundle of misery previously known as Rowan nodded. Awkwardly it bent up to pick up the sketchbook and offered it to her without ever meeting her eyes. For the rest of the visit Rowan limited herself to speaking in monosyllables, shame and awkwardness choking out anything else despite Ava's best efforts to return to their previous banter.

When the time to leave came they both walked silently to the door. Ava waved awkwardly from the car window as Simone drove away.

Rowan could feel Yasmin's worried gaze boring holes in her back.  She mumbled something about painting and sunsets, grabbed her backpack and hurried out the door before her aunt could ask what happened.

The young artist's long shadow stretched behind her on the grass as she made her way to the sea.

Next Chapter:

[hollywoodx4]

First Sight-Eurydice (Modern AU)

hi, the best part of this detox was it giving me a LOT of time to write, and the fact that my screen time said I went down 86% this week so. A win all around. Here’s one piece of a two-piece little companion...thing...this is Eurydice seeing Orpheus for the first time. In the modern AU I have with my dear @dilforpheus who writes beautifully and is a wonderful human (and gives me a LOT of ideas.)

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I am not a tragedy, Eurydice huffs to herself, pulling her arm through the sleeve of an oversized cardigan. I am not a tragedy. She’s a fucking idiot.

              She flings open the door of the academic aid center with as much strength as her tiny body allows. It slides open slowly with a dissatisfying hiss. She grunts, slings her half-opened backpack on her back and crosses her arms over her chest as she walks. Anger boils quickly to the surface of her mind, where the picture of the financial aid advisor who had been helping her lingers, unable to be moved. She’d looked over her file, tracing her finger along the screen of her computer monitor before nodding.

              “Your semester should be paid for-it looks like the scholarship you received rolled over. And you received that for…”

              “-having a suicidal mom.”

              “Oh-okay, I,” The counselor had been flustered, continuing to scroll down. “This says that you should be set for a while, actually. The other fund,”

              “Dad set aside a college fund when I was little.”

              “And you’re emancipated?”

              “He is.”  Eurydice had shuffled in her seat, picking at the row of bracelets on her arm. She’d pulled one back and snapped it hard against her wrist. Through her peripheral she’d seen the usual; downturned lips, eyelids slightly closed, the shining in them, as if she’d been the one to go through losing both parents-as if she’d been the one bouncing from house to house, trading her body for shelter and the occasional warm meal. Her muscles tense.

              “Are we done now?” She’d spoken through tight lips, shifting forward in her chair. The advisor had nodded and she shoot up from her chair, grabbing her jacket and backpack and cradling them in her arms. She was just about to move when the woman stood up from her desk, reaching out to touch a well-manicured hand on her arm.

              “I really am sorry,” The familiar look of pity warped her features. Eurydice pulled her arm away, nodded quickly, and left before she could say whatever else was on her mind.

              Her feet carry her briskly, heavily, as the bitter air of the brisk fall day bites at her heaving lungs. She continues her cursing, the inward monologue attempting to brush back the old feelings the questioning had brought to the surface. She had just wanted to make sure that she could continue here, on this familiar campus, halfway through her college education and back into the real world. She had time; time to sit and study, time to prove herself.

              I really am so sorry. The voice is an old chant, basically a childhood lullaby. The sound of pity pops back into her head just as soon as it’s left. She hates the familiarity-hates the way the words attempt to wrap her in their embrace with no real attempt at helping her. They’d all been sorry, with their soft voices and hands on her hair, both when her mother had died and her father’s heart died along with her. They’d all said sorry, everyone around her. If they’d been truly sorry, if they’d cared, they would have seen what was happening before it was too late.

              Eurydice pushes the thoughts away, concentrates on the sound of her heavy boots hitting the concrete pathway. Her feet carry her to the coffee shop-a tiny, shoebox of a place with a heavy wooden door and thickly framed photos of the campus hung in no semblance of order all over the walls. She ducks through the door, moves quickly to the counter and blurts out her order-espresso; espresso and dark coffee. She’s working at the diner tonight. This shift on a Tuesday night will bring about the round table of older women in bobbed haircuts asking her the same twenty questions about the menu-we’re all gluten free, we’re trying a new diet. Oh-croutons have gluten? Are you sure? They’d have copies of the same book open on the table, get mad when she asks them to move their books so she can put their food down. And then they’d leave cash, each holding out a wad of it from their purse. Somehow, there’s never enough for more than a 5% tip-never enough for her troubles.

              She sits in her usual place-a nook in the corner of the room, close to the barista’s station but tucked away a bit, in a slightly worn leather armchair. Her coffee is steaming, bitter, the taste of waking up again as its heat crawls through her exhausted frame. She tucks her legs underneath her, opens her backpack and pulls out a textbook, cradling it in her lap before ducking in. This is a usual routine, the bustling of the shop making a good backdrop to the words on the page. The rush of students coming and going, the whir of the machines-the space feels safe, relaxed. The coffee isn’t the best, but it’s better than sitting at home, where her neighbors scream and the streets below are filled with shade and deceit. Here, Eurydice can focus on the words she’s reading, write notes and absorb information. Without the heightened sense of worry, there is space for growth. She basks in this.

              “What’s your favorite?” She hears a voice bubbling above the usual chatter, lifted and pleasant. She feels her lips curve in a smile, continues reading. “I’m not sure-I think sweet. Maybe vanilla? Or maple? That sounds good.” The voice continues its musing, bringing her attention to its conversation. She can just barely make out the voice of the barista-it’s Kyle today, who looks her up and down and gives her two extra shots of espresso when he’s making the drinks. The voice decides on vanilla maple-sweet-and she looks up just in time to see him pass by.

              He’s tall-not impossibly so, but comparatively to her own height. He’s all limb, long arms and legs, a thinned torso with a guitar strapped around his back. He’s dressed like he’s walked straight out of another decade, somewhere without proper lighting to match his clothing in the way the other men on campus do. He wears a white shirt with a few undone buttons, fitted loose. There’s a red bandana tied around his neck, and his pants are slightly dressy, yet a tad too big for his legs. He also wears suspenders-unironically, she assumes by the way they seem to pull into the aesthetic that ages him. It would age him, too, if it weren’t for his face-he exudes friendliness, sitting himself nearer to the center of the room and sipping on his iced coffee. He grins, waves at the barista and shouts a this is great over to the counter. He smiles then, a motion that consumes his entire presence, lights up the space around him. Eurydice feels the warmth of it, can practically see the world around him shift to accept it.

              The boy draws another long sip from his cup and sets it down on the sturdy vintage table in front of him, shifting his weight so that he is sitting cross-legged on his own large leather chair, impossibly relaxed. He shifts his gaze for a moment, fingers switching back and forth idly before he begins to strum. She can barely hear it-the shop is full of chatter and rustling papers, laptop keys clicking and the whir of the espresso machine. He moves his lips, too, and her body shifts forward in a fruitless attempt to hear what he might be singing with such a concentrated expression. He looks satisfied with himself for only a moment-eyes closed, nodding-before reaching over his guitar to find a pen. He brushes back his hair, but it merely flops back into place. Then he’s writing in a small notebook, tip of his tongue poking slightly through parted lips as he makes hasty notes. She’s transfixed; his concentration, the deep sigh of his smile as he lets himself feel the music-She shakes her head then, wondering just how long she’s been watching him. In this space, where she comes every day for bitter coffee and a bit of peace, he is a newcomer. She wonders immediately where he’s been-why he’s chosen to come here today. She considers asking him, and then quickly stops herself and pulls her book back up, finding the place she’d been reading.