The Dioscuri are fighting. Over many things: pride, power, a name, a woman, a place; simply because they are brothers, and close.

Castor the horseman mounts and sneers at his twin. “Admit defeat, and all is forgiven. Beg my forgiveness and I will be merciful.”

“Leniency, brother?” Pollux winds the leather strips around his knuckles, slaps palms together. “An ill-chosen trait for the sons of Tyndareus. No. Let it be as Fate decrees.”

Castor the grim-faced nods and wheels his horse away. Pollux squares his feet and hunches his shoulders. The sky is blue and no winds blow.

Castor shouts and thunders across the field, his face wild. Pollux rolls away, comes up already punching, tight-wrapped fists against broad horse jaw. The horse rears and screams and Castor high in the air cries, “First touch!”

The day is young and the sons of Leda do not tire. Blood will come, or darkness, or reconciliation.