Orestes was not a coward.

He stumbled from his mother’s den with bloodied fingers, never had he seen such ichor flow and glimmer upon stone, diluting purity to what lay behind birth. Death.

Aegisthus had been a tyrant.

His mother had been a murderer.

The children… they would have sought vengeance. Killed him just like any other who did not allow the womanly fears of blood to stain noble hands.

His eyes fell over the pillars that secured his once home of Mycenae, eyes of intricate design by Athena’s best, scorning him and threatening to topple his newly gained lands all for the life he’d swallowed.

He found you, close as you had sworn it, his hand fell to your arm. He was no woman, he could not faint like a damsel who saw the first signs of battle, he would not fail by the ichor of man that scorned his priceless skin.

“It is done—he lay avenged now, House of Atreus stands with glory.” Words felt raw upon his throat, he had never been apart of such a house. His father torn away and forefathers dead when his legs left his mother’s womb.

Orestes looked to you, his sibling, his companion within this coup. You knew the blood as best as he, perhaps more, your wit had been what kept his mind from tearing at sanity and the furies taking what little remained.

“Come, come, we must rid ourselves of this place.” He murmured, his eyes widened with a panicked eye as he felt the brush of wings upon his back, the eyes of scorn by karma’s lust unto his own irises.