Cassandra and Apollo

Chapter 21

AN: This section has reference to sexual assault (though brief, but it is there).  There is also some spicy content (rough sketch above). 

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She resented them all.  How could she not, by the end?  She'd warned the king, warned the princes, warned the soldiers.  None had listened and they'd walked to their pyre, like sacrificial rams.  Offerings for the voracious gods. 

And so, none of them had her pity when the Achaeans conquered--through trickery, of course, for this was their only true skill.  Trickery inspired by a gray-eyed goddess, known for her military wiles.  

The leader of the host, Agamemnon, claimed Cassandra from the first.  He'd been forced to give up one priestess and was keen to recoup his losses.  Even more eager was he to use his new war prize, to make up for frustrated nights without a bed slave.  

Cassandra endured.  Even as he bruised her limbs, tore her hair, broke the skin on her neck and breasts from kisses that were not kisses at all, but ravening bites.  None of this mattered to her, because she knew what came next.  For the king, and for her. 

The House of Atreus was cursed and, if she had any say over it at all, would remain cursed until the Furies lost every iron feather in their terrible wings.  She would voice her curses, a little too loudly, and scare some of the other slaves.  These were princesses, duchesses, women of haughty smiles and long, sharp nails, but now, they'd been reduced to quavering leaves on an autumn-curled tree.  Perhaps they had the right of it, though; it accomplished nothing to remain obstinate.  In fact, her bucking only excited the terrible king.  

One night, Cassandra remained quiet when he ordered her to his bed, she did not tear at his flesh or pull her face away.  Indifference pulled the wind from his sails, left his ship moored on the shore.  He slapped her hard across the face and sent her away, If you were prettier my cock would be hard as stone right now, he growled.  She said nothing. 

It was a small gift, to be able to walk along the shore at night.  The waves sang at her back, a lulling chorus thousands of years old.  The ocean knew nothing of Troy or Mycenae, it cared not at all about dead heroes and villains.  And there was a quiet comfort to that.  

She stepped outside herself and saw the sea-foam bubble at her feet.  It was like a caress. Stepping further into the waves, she allowed the the wine-dark water to lap at her hips. 

A voice, deep and rich, lit the moonless air. 

"Do you still hate me?" he asked.

She did not turn around.  He was disguised, for she did not feel the mid-morning heat of his skin.  But she knew it was him, for, even disguised he could not mask the fresh rain scent of his ichor. 

Did she still hate him?  There were so many more deserving of her ire, it seemed a shame to waste any on him. 

Her shoulders dropped a measure. 

"Less today than yesterday," she sighed.  The gentle chirp of the breakers let her know he'd stepped into the water.  

He touched her shoulder, turning her to face him.  Gods could take any shape they desired, he could be tall, short, thin, muscular.  His true form she'd seen only in dreams, and even then it was hard to remember his features, save for the overall impression of flowing gold.  His current shape was nothing like that.  

He'd chosen a decidedly mortal form, though his vanity prevented him from looking plain.  Tall and broad, with thick plowman's hands, he could have fooled anyone into thinking he was just another slave.  Until he spoke, of course, for his voice remained divine; it was the crack of boulders and the sear of noon.