Quoted By:
Shuffling and weaving at the end of your processional line, you find the rhythm of the dance – there is an order to the twisting and turning that becomes more evident as you shuffle on, following the hymnal singer before you closely. For some reason, the careful steps – advancing, retreating – side-twists and turns – reminds you of your endless hours of drilling in the training yard. In short – you surprise yourself by taking to the dance well!
Across the field, you gauge the performance of the others. Odysseus, to your complete expectation, is a wonder to behold, dancing with style, verse and poise – even his face managing to communicate joy and precision all at once. On the other side of the Altar, you seek Teukros leading his own line of hymnal singers, dancing nearly as well as Odysseus, his natural agility and carefree attitude lending his feet grace – you’re proud of him! Beside you, at the tail end of your neighboring line, Pollux is lost in the dance, face smooth and eyes unseeing, turning so smoothly and stepping so finely that he truly does appear to be a large blonde crane, threading his way through the shallows.
Menestheus brings attention to himself in a negative way – his dance is stilted, awkward, his face in a grimace. Perhaps the earning morning performance does not agree with his joints, as you know old men sometimes need hours before they gain a measure of flexibility. He certainly appears to be in pain, as he shuffles across the dewy grass. His staggering motions cause his dancers to bunch up and nearly collide on several occasions.
When the time comes to reverse direction, you spin with aplomb, and competently guided your dancers out of the Labyrinth, reversing the curling pathway you used to approach – time again stretches strangely. You blink, and the dance is over – Anios is presenting Odysseus with a golden crane pin, Teukros with one of silver, and finally, Pollux with one of bronze. Anios raises his arms widely before the Altar, emitting a long chantlike sermon extoling the virtues of his father. From across the field, you see a young hymnal singer, dark of hair, smiling broadly, unlike his solemn-faced peers – and you suspect Apollo is pleased with your group’s conduct this morning.
Dance complete, you are swiftly shepherded away from the Altar – you pay it once last glance, searing it into your memory, before the tent curtain shields it from your view.
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