"Ash," Greek Mythology fan fiction (ficlet)
Title: Ash
Fandom: Greek Mythology
Character/Pairing: Cassandra, implied Apollo/Cassandra
Summary: Cassandra muses on her crimes.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mention of violence.
A/N: Written for all_unwritten.
Ash on my tongue, the taste of madness as I scream till my throat is raw - I should have learned long ago how foolish this is, when the crushing weight of a curse was placed on my head, but it is so difficult, when the prophecies spill out of my lips already written, the words of my God, when I can see the pain and fire that will come to this, our city.
I have had much time to think, locked here in this tower where my family placed me, high up enough that the wind will not carry the sound of my warnings to their ears, and I have realized what Apollo did not tell me - even if I did not disobey him, even if I went willingly into his arms, then I would perhaps still be cursed. For it is not most vile hubris to try to change what the Gods themselves intend? Maybe they wouldn’t have cursed me for that, maybe Apollo’s favor and the fact that this crime is committed often by those of us blessed and cursed with prophecy would have been enough for them to overlook that transgression. But I would not have been able to change the outcome, so say all our priests. Prophecies come true whatever we do to stop them, as the story of Laius and Jocasta and their son, unlucky Oedipus, tells us.
But at least they would have known, then. At least they could have prepared for their deaths with dignity.
I have thought all this before - my thoughts are as circular as the small expanse of this room. And they are nothing but a way to mark time till the next vision comes, whether it is one I have seen before or not. I cannot think in the midst of the agony of their sounds and images, though I can summon them back half calmly now - fire garishly bright against the night sky, an old man (my father, my king) in purple robes stained rain crumbled on marble floors, my sister Polyxena, her eyes resolute, a knife at her throat. In my time, here, the air stagnant, I have strung together all the images into a narrative, the gaps in it filled as neatly as I can manage, a story fit for a bard to tell in a king’s hall far away. They shall, probably, and the listeners shall believe the tale, for it shall not come from my lips.
Oh, but here a vision comes again to me, like the tides, though the patterns have nothing to do with the moon. I close my eyes into it, already tasting ash.
Fandom: Greek Mythology
Character/Pairing: Cassandra, implied Apollo/Cassandra
Summary: Cassandra muses on her crimes.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mention of violence.
A/N: Written for all_unwritten.
Ash on my tongue, the taste of madness as I scream till my throat is raw - I should have learned long ago how foolish this is, when the crushing weight of a curse was placed on my head, but it is so difficult, when the prophecies spill out of my lips already written, the words of my God, when I can see the pain and fire that will come to this, our city.
I have had much time to think, locked here in this tower where my family placed me, high up enough that the wind will not carry the sound of my warnings to their ears, and I have realized what Apollo did not tell me - even if I did not disobey him, even if I went willingly into his arms, then I would perhaps still be cursed. For it is not most vile hubris to try to change what the Gods themselves intend? Maybe they wouldn’t have cursed me for that, maybe Apollo’s favor and the fact that this crime is committed often by those of us blessed and cursed with prophecy would have been enough for them to overlook that transgression. But I would not have been able to change the outcome, so say all our priests. Prophecies come true whatever we do to stop them, as the story of Laius and Jocasta and their son, unlucky Oedipus, tells us.
But at least they would have known, then. At least they could have prepared for their deaths with dignity.
I have thought all this before - my thoughts are as circular as the small expanse of this room. And they are nothing but a way to mark time till the next vision comes, whether it is one I have seen before or not. I cannot think in the midst of the agony of their sounds and images, though I can summon them back half calmly now - fire garishly bright against the night sky, an old man (my father, my king) in purple robes stained rain crumbled on marble floors, my sister Polyxena, her eyes resolute, a knife at her throat. In my time, here, the air stagnant, I have strung together all the images into a narrative, the gaps in it filled as neatly as I can manage, a story fit for a bard to tell in a king’s hall far away. They shall, probably, and the listeners shall believe the tale, for it shall not come from my lips.
Oh, but here a vision comes again to me, like the tides, though the patterns have nothing to do with the moon. I close my eyes into it, already tasting ash.