Cassandra and Apollo

Chapter 19

AN:  Very close to the end now!  Thanks to everyone who has stuck around :)

**

Athena turns to Patroclus. In Diomedes's voice, she says, "You wish to find glory on this field. It pleases me that you should try."

She indicates over her shoulder.

"The Trojan general approaches. Kill him and men will song of you for a thousand generations."

"But the Greek soldiers, they are..." he begins to object, but she interrupts.

"Achilles's match, they will call you."

Patroclus's ears burn at the thought.

He knows this opportunity will not surface again. Athena is with him.

"Take me to him."

She does.

**

Cassandra's feet are blistered from tracing the four walls of the music room.

Her mind reels. For the first time in seven years, she did not dream of Achilles and Hector, Hector and Achilles. It is as if her mind has quieted before the storm.

Cassandra finds a corner beneath the wide, flat window. She sits and stares at the sun dappled ceiling. It is cold now, or, at least, it feels much colder without Hector's arm draped over her shoulder. The room feels bigger, too; it might swallow her whole. She might stay in here forever and waste away like echo, calling out for someone who will never return.

The vision strikes, then, cruel and unexpected, like summer lightning.

She sees Achilles driving the spear through Hector's chest. Then, she is Hector. She feels the vigor draining from his limbs, the fading pain of his half-healed wounds. For a moment, she imagines she can still pull him away. But Apollo's words return to her—the tapestry is done. She feels the crunch of bone, hears the wet gurgle of blood flooding his throat, her throat.

She cannot breathe. She gasps for air, but it stays, stiff and stagnant, around her. I will drown on land, she thinks to herself, but the idea doesn't frighten her.

Eventually, the air returns to her lungs.

The vision leaves her shivering, curled into a tight ball with her cheek pressed against the cold tile. She does not move, doesn't even try.

He is dead, she thinks, I have lived his last breath.

But then...

The door flies open.

She sees his ghost, still battered from the field. A purple bruise spills like new wine over his right eye. Above it, there is a small cut. It is neat and even, the kind field medics use to drain pooled blood.

"Away!" she shouts, openly sobbing. "Why torment me? I know my brother is dead!"

"I disagree," he says.

The ghost approaches, kneels by her side and embraces her tightly. Kisses her forehead.

He doesn't feel like a shade, he is solid and warm.

She breaks away and looks up at him.

"It's you," she gasps. "You're alive?"

"You sound disappointed," he shoots her a crooked smile.

It is him, she thinks. Her chest aches, the relief is almost unbearable.

Forgetting everything, she throws her arms around his neck and pulls him toward her, nearly unbalancing him. He winces, groaning painfully.