Pelopia
All that is left of honey is its viscous drift. The rustle of distant leaves is inaudible. The luxuriant hyacinths are as frigid as the palace urns. And the caresses of her partner are dull lacerations.
The sword alone gathers no dust. It whispers deliverance.
What of the child? A path that demands vigor from her now vaporous feet.
Pylades
He has known sorrow. But none as deep as Iphigenia’s. She is a caryatid, a support of her family’s ceaseless transgressions. And the fissures caused by the weight mar her once beautiful face.
He has known madness. But none as comprehensive as Orestes’. He is a bas-relief, a figure ever at the brink of life. And his mind remains a frieze that imprisons him.
These paltry shapes with whom he shares the ocean have died many deaths. Thus they have drunk more of the vital cup. He cannot judge whether this is punishment or reward. He can judge only that in their company he is a ghost.
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