A short snippet from my first draft/zero draft:
Her mother stared at the ground where bodies lay by Pólemos’ bare, blood-covered feet. She’d been dancing. It wasn’t her talent, but the sight had sparked a sort of joy that she could not contain, and so she’d danced around the dead, celebrating the beauty. “War is not an art, my child, this…” she started, “this is madness.”
“War is an art,” Pólemos sighed. “Perhaps even more so than Terpsichore’s dancing or Melpomene’s acting. How can Polyhymnia write her hymns without death, Mamma? Without war? I have finally found my purpose. My craft inspires creativity in others. Can’t you see, Mamma? There can be no beauty in this world without darkness, no light without horror.”
“War is an art,” Pólemos sighed. “Perhaps even more so than Terpsichore’s dancing or Melpomene’s acting. How can Polyhymnia write her hymns without death, Mamma? Without war? I have finally found my purpose. My craft inspires creativity in others. Can’t you see, Mamma? There can be no beauty in this world without darkness, no light without horror.”
-CR
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