Beneath the Wave

A letter from Cassandra of Troy to the Greek God Apollo

Dearest Apollo,

On the day we met, I knew you were the sun before I even knew your name. You shined like starlight and your eyes were pits of light that were easy to get lost in. You had a laugh that reminded me of a warm summer day, and your smile...

Your smile is what drew me in.

There were a many of pretty girls at that party, but your fiery eyes landed on me. The first thing you said to me was that I was the most beautiful woman you had ever seen.

For one so heavenly, you spit out lies so well.

I was but a young girl when you set your sights on me-a mere sprout of budding colors in a world of tall rose bushes. And when you offered me power beyond my wildest dreams, what young girl would deny it?

Apollo,

oh angelic being,

oh courteous fool,

and hypnotic stranger;

You are a curse upon this world.

Of course I would deny you. The sight you blessed me with turned my dreams into nightmares.

I saw what happened to your lovers.

Kind Daphne; an innocent nymph with a heart of gold. You chased her like a wolf chases a lamb, and then cried when she evaded you. You wept at her loss, and proclaimed her a symbol of your heartbreak.

You only wept for your pride.

Handsome Hyacinthus; a prince of noble birth, torn between the vicious love of two godly beings. You cried for days at his loss, and then turned his cold and rotting body into a beautiful flower.

You said it was to always remember him,

But darling, you are the god of poetry,

And you are nothing if not a bitter romantic,

More drunk on the heartbreak than the love.

You've chased mortals like mortals chase protection.

How could they not have loved you? You were the very sun, and we were dying stars, desperate to keep near your warmth.

Now, you have turned your affections towards me. I may be a princess but we are as plenty as weeds. There is no spare of beautiful women in Troy, or Sparta, or Greece.

Why must I be your next tragedy?

Sweetest Apollo, it is against my very nature, but I must deny you.

I do not wish to be a solemn memory; A cherished mortal you look back on in affection every few centuries.

I will not die young and tortured to satiate your affections. I am not a memory, or a vague fondness from your future past. I may be mortal, but I am not a home for your fleeting love.

I am temporal; and my life will be my own.

I will not be your poetry. I will not be your tragedy.