Apollo and Cassandra
Apollo the sun god sees everything. He saw Agamemnon trampling purple on the steps of the palace of Mycenae, saw Clytaemnestra's satisfied smile. He watched from above as Cassandra prophesied and was ignored by the old men of the city. He saw the girl turn away, saw her finally enter the house of the king. He saw the blow that killed Agamemnon, the blood seeping from the wound to dye the bathwater red. He watched the two women exchange looks, Clytaemnestra's proud and vindictive, madness shining in her eyes, Cassandra's knowing, resigned, not fearful.
The sun sees everything. Apollo cannot look away, even if he wishes to, and so he saw in exquisite detail the arch of Clytaemnestra's arm as she wielded the dagger one more time. He saw the path through the air of each single drop of blood, and he saw Cassandra fall.
He did not hear the scream. He did not hear, between ragged laboured breaths, the whisper, "He will come…"
The day came to its end; the sun set, and Apollo stepped down from his chariot to mourn over the body of the woman he had loved.
He moved through the palace of Mycenae unseen amongst the rejoicing of the queen's followers. Coming to the entrance hall, where Agamemnon still lay in his copper cauldron, the god paused. Cassandra was beautiful even in death, her long hair falling in dishevelled ringlets across her face, the white of her priestess' robes stained dark by blood. He did not care that she had rejected him at the last, torn off the jewels of the temple and the headband of the prophetess.
He did not expect her to be breathing when he knelt down beside her.
For a moment, Apollo was struck dumb by the utter wrongness of the situation. He had not prophesied this. This was not supposed to happen. Cassandra was supposed to be dead, he was sure of it.
Or he had been. The sun sees everything; but even the prophets do not know all that will or may happen – even the gods do not. After a long pause, a smile spread across the god's youthful face. Apollo the healer placed one hand on Cassandra's side, over the knife-wound. His power flowed into her, and after a moment her breathing eased. Gathering the girl up into his arms, the god stepped back into his chariot and urged on the horses of the sun.
He took her to his mother's Delos, and placed her in the care of the priests there. For weeks she remained lost in fevered dreams troubled by half-remembered prophecies. When she woke, he would be there, and she would slip into calmer sleep for a while, reassured by the sight of concerned blue eyes and the hand of the healer god on her dark hair. Her wound healed slowly, despite his divine assistance, but Apollo was patient, and Cassandra herself was oblivious.
It was high summer when her strength returned, and Apollo was not there the day she left her sickbed and walked again, gracing the people of Delos with her smile as she passed amongst them. He came only in the evening, when his chariot was put aside and Nyx drew the starry veil of night across the heavens. He came barefoot on the soft grass of his first home, with the last light of the sun glimmering on his face and hair. Cassandra was waiting for him, sitting outside in the cool evening air despite the urgings of the priests to consider her recent recovery, and she smiled as he approached.
"I knew you would come. The priests did not believe me."
"I believe you," he replied, taking a seat beside her, and they sat in companionable silence as the moon rose above them.
"Your sister," Cassandra pointed out. "Does she know you saved me?"
Apollo looked down. "Yes," he admitted.
"And your father?"
"Yes. He was not angry – not once I persuaded him that this was meant to be."
Cassandra smiled again. "I knew you would come."
"You did." Apollo sighed, remembering their old bargain, the bargain broken and the betrayal repaid. "My true prophetess…" He wondered if, even now, she would like to be believed.
"My lord." Cassandra looked up at him from dark eyes framed by darker lashes. Her hair was once more bound back with a sacred band, but her curls were rebellious and refused to be confined, falling out to frame her delicate face. Apollo wished to touch them, but restrained himself. He would not force himself on her. He had had the chance for that years ago, in his temple in Troy, when Cassandra had been scarcely more than a child, and he had not taken it. She was more beautiful now than she ever had been as a princess of Troy, he thought, and turned away from her.
A frown marred the perfect face of the priestess as she watched him, and she wondered if now, having saved her, he regretted his actions. But he had been with her all through her recovery; she had felt his eyes on her even when she was asleep, and had known that he watched from the sun-chariot even when he was not there in person. "My lord," she repeated. Was he remembering their old agreement? The agreement that she had forfeited by her refusal, earning a curse to match her blessing. She had grown used to it over the years. It no longer hurt to know that she would not be believed by the people – not when she knew that Apollo would believe her.
Besides, was the bargain not void now? The prize had been her maidenhead, which had, in the end, been taken by Agamemnon, who had cared little for it and given her only rough kisses and an almost-death in return. With a sigh, Cassandra placed one hand on the god's chest. She had only a moment to marvel at the warmth of his skin before he snapped round, lifting her hand in his and moving it away from his body.
Another time, she would have flinched at the anger in his eyes. But she had survived death; she had outlived her family, her city, and her captor, and she knew she would never outlive the god. "Apollo… it is time to remake our bargain."
He dropped her hand. "You wish your prophecies to be believed. You wish to be relieved of the burden of seeming madness," he said flatly, blue eyes once more calm, as the sea becomes smooth when the wind drops suddenly in the midst of a storm.
"No."
That was enough to spark life out of those eyes, the look of curiosity brightening them. "What, then?" asked Apollo the prophet.
His skin still shone pale gold in the night, a beacon calling to her. Cassandra looked away. "Madness is a kind of freedom; and I know that your gifts, once given, cannot be taken away. Both prophecy and mistrust are mine until death. I no longer have that which you once sought of me," she continued with difficulty, her voice unsteady, "and, having been granted my life, I have no right to ask anything more of you. But I will ask all the same." She paused, gathering strength against the reply that, for once, she could not predict. "Apollo, will you believe me – always?"
The god seemed to consider her question for a long time, and still she could not meet his eyes. Gazing upwards at the sky, Cassandra wondered if the god's sister was watching, up there in the silver chariot of the moon, and what she thought of his hesitation. Was it any easier for the gods to read each other? Even they could not see everything that might be.
Eventually, he answered her, in slow and measured tones, his voice giving nothing away. "I will believe you. I know the truth you speak, for I too am a prophet. This is a gift I would not ask a price for, and I would give unbidden. But, Cassandra, I sense that there is more you wish of me." He turned to her, and this time she met his gaze, marvelling at the unnatural, divine, brightness of his eyes in the dark night. Transfixed, she could only nod.
As he leaned in to kiss her, her hands found their way to his waist of their own accord, and, unthinking, Cassandra closed her eyes and submitted to the kiss. The warmth of his body spread through her, and after a moment she found herself returning the kiss in kind. "Apollo," she murmured against his lips, feeling them curve in a smile, "I love you."
"I know," he replied, and pressed her down onto the soft grass. He was still smiling, blue eyes dancing with daylight and soft skin glowing; the words were written all over his expression, and she stopped him from saying them with another kiss.
Apollo the lover laughed at his mistress' boldness, and lay down next to her on the soft grass beneath innumerable stars.
Even prophets cannot predict everything.