|Iphigenia (strongborn) wrote in nevermore_logs,|
@ 2013-08-25 20:04:00
|Entry tags:||achilles, iphigenia|
WHO: Iphigenia [Narrative/OPEN]
WHEN: Late Saturday night/early Sunday morning
WHERE: Her place and then some Manhattan diner
WHAT: Bad dreams and walking the streets
WARNINGS: talk of blood and murder.
Iphigenia's hands are slippery with blood and she holds them out from herself, her dress too pure and white to stain. The body on the altar before her convulses, the rich crimson still spewing free from the throat she'd drawn open with blade. She blinks against the sunlight and if Artemis sees this sacrifice to her, she makes no sign of it. She never makes sign of it. To Iphigenia it is an act done for nothing, without purpose and without end. In lines they bring her her own countrymen to slaughter, this the afterlife she has been given.
Somewhere across the seas, in the country that is her home, a fawn died.
Somewhere across the seas, far from all familiar, a girl has lived. But her hands are stained and her soul is marked - what life is this?
In Tauris, High Priestess Iphigenia clutches the knife with wet hands and the man on the table turns his split neck to look up at her, mouthing words she cannot hear. She leans in, but she can only hear her own heartbeat. She leans in to hear him and his face belongs to her brother, clutching, grabbing, pulling her against him so the blood will mark them both as guilty. And no matter how hard she struggles she cannot get free, her attendants watching on impassively. Iphigenia is crying and screaming and twisting.
Iphigenia opened her eyes in the dark of her bedroom, her pillow and face wet with tears. She sat up straight though, because for a moment Orestes was there standing by her bed. But as sleep departed so did the image of him, even as she reached out a hand to grab him. No Orestes. Only her room in New York City, far from both Greece and Tauris. Neither a priestess who offered sacrifices or a girl who became one.
There wouldn't be any more sleep tonight.
Iphigenia untangled herself from the covers, her skin wet and sticky. Flicking on the light in the bathroom she relieved to find that it was only sweat and not blood, and she rested her forehead against the mirror for a long time, closing her eyes and hearing her heart begin to return to a normal rhythm.
Then she was pulling on a worn pair of jeans and a sweater, finding her keys and locking her door behind her even as she still pulled her hair free from her collar.
Saturday night and the streets still weren't quiet, even at this late hour. Around here the streets were never truly empty. There were enough brightly lit places that never closed.
Iphigenia found herself a late night diner and slipped into one of the booths. When the waitress brought her a coffee, Iphigenia thanked her and rested her cheek against the table, moving crumbs around on the surface as she watched the steam rising from her drink.