Sometimes the cost of winning for all the right reasons is so great that spirits die and hearts grow cold.

Look to the souls of Your own soldiers, God, who labor in Thine awful cause.

Order is its own reward.

You've been playing gods-and-witches again, that's clear.

The two stallions, the silver and the black, represent the equine god (whomsoever horses pray to) in this ritual so ancient that no one knows what god to thank.

Now the Fates are here on the beach, three shadows blacker than black, walking through the dunes and looking for their own. Just shadows, lamb-white hands beneath black robes spun of tears, glide among the celebrants on this night wherein the spirits of Thebes have found a home, if serendipitously.

I won't go back and live in the sea again.