Cassandra and Apollo

Chapter 1

A/N:  Hi all, just added a sketch of Apollo (not really my Apollo but an Apollo I've drawn before.  Feel free to imagine him, though, he's cute.)

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Cassandra was a princess of Troy. But make no mistake, she was not neither idle nor vain. She would not drape herself, bored and useless, on a couch to wait out the midday heat. And she had no patience for courtiers or handmaids, how they waited for scandal with baited breath and carnivorous smiles.

It should come as no surprise, then, that she was not popular. Perhaps if she had been better equipped for these subtle politics, the stones might have dropped in a different, more auspicious order.

"Name a wish, and, for your coming-of-age day, I shall grant it, dearest daughter," said the wizened king, gesturing toward his treasure hall.

To say her father's name was to invoke the very idea of plenty, of luxury and prosperity. His kingdom was ripe fruit that would never rot, wine that would never sour. Or so he thought. But mortals were given to such flights of fancy, too short-lived to truly understand their own impermanence.

He'd expected his daughter to claim one of the jeweled scepters, or a coffer of saltwater pearls, for her age-day prize. But the king had fifty sons and as many daughters; he did not know her well.

"My wish is to dedicate myself to Phoebus Apollo's service," she replied, without hesitating.

Troy was dedicated to golden Apollo, god of archery, music, healing, and nearly everything that made the kingdom great. He was also said to be the most beautiful of the Olympians, a ruling class of gods so named for their heavenly home on Mount Olympus. The mountain towered above the earth, scraping the sky raw and daring it to say aught in complaint. The sky couldn't, of course, having already been beaten by the chief Olympian, Zeus, Apollo's father.

The old king's liver-spotted hand gripped the edge of his throne, his spindly beard swaying as he licked thin, bloodless lips.

"Surely you jest at your poor old father's expense," he croaked, frail throat working toward a growl. "You are high born and beautiful, you could have your pick of suitors. In fact, my messengers were just about to carry scrolls praising your many talents and inviting offers for your hand in marriage."

The king signaled to a herald who had been following the conversation with marked interest. His eyes seemed to say, No, I have not changed my mind; deliver the letters. She does not know what she wants.

"Marriage?" she asked, not bothering to hide her disgust. The word felt thick and filmy in her mouth, like poorly stored olive oil.

She shook her dark curls, gathered at the nape so they would not fall over her face as she bent to read her books.

The king, old though he was, was far from dull. He did not fail to register her tone and was displeased.

"Yes, marriage. How else will you give me grandsons and granddaughters?" He explained, as if she'd merely forgotten this point and, once reminded, would immediately recant her request.

The thought of children, and the process of begetting them, twisted her stomach. As a child, she'd seen animals rutting and panting in the streets, and learned from her nurses that this was how they created new beasts. Later, she'd seen two-legged animals skulking in dark corners of her father's feasting halls. Horrified, she'd asked one of her forty-nine older sisters to explain, and sorely wished she hadn't. "That's shameful and you should never do that with a man who is not your husband," Clymene scolded, as if Cassandra would ever even consider such a thing.

She'd spent the rest of the day poring over her sister's words: never do that with a man who is not your husband. Meaning, she would have to endure the beastly huffing and jerking of whatever dull princeling became her husband.