SNEAK PEAK: Prophet of Nobody

This is one of the chapters of my current work in progress, Prophet of Nobody, my Greek Mythology AU where Kassandra (cursed by Apollo to see the future but no one will believe her) ends up tagging along with Odysseus during his odyssey. 

For context, Kassandra got her curse about four years ago (that'll be the prologue), and it's the day before the Fall of Troy.

**

Kassandra held up the shirt she’d been given to mend. It had already been cleaned, thank the hateful, useless gods, all the sweat and blood scrubbed out of the fabric. But the gash across the belly was severe. She was amazed her nephew had managed to survive long enough to want the shirt back. 

“I don’t think I can do much for this,” she lied.

Her mother, Queen Hecuba, tsked. “Do your best, dear.” 

Delivering shirts was a task far beneath a queen, but Hecuba still did it. It was the only time she visited Kassandra in the tower Priam had locked her in, on the farthest corner of the palace. It had originally been used to house particularly unpleasant house guests that they were trying to politely be rude to. It was just big enough for her bed, a chair, a loom, and two chests: one for clothes, one for everything else.

Immediately after being cursed four years ago, Kassandra had—perhaps stupidly—told the other Apollo priests. They hadn’t believed her, accusing her of spreading lies about their god, and eventually banished her from the priesthood. 

She told her family. They didn’t believe her, either. Hecuba had sighed and said, “I thought we’d outgrown such fantasies, dear.”

When she’d gotten her first vision that told her one of her brothers would die if he went beyond the safety of the walls to fight off the Greeks, she’d tried to tell him. Even explicitly detailed the arrow going through his eye. He’d laughed at her, gone to battle, and died.

She got a vision that told her Troy would fall. When she’d shared that, Priam had ordered her not to speak until she returned to her senses. 

She had disobeyed after Henicea got married and pregnant, warning her the child would be stillborn. When it had come to pass, Henicea had screamed at her, struck her face, and accused her of cursing her and the baby. Kassandra had still been tending the bruise on her cheek when Priam had ordered her contained to the tower, presumably for her own safety. Kassandra thought he just didn’t want to deal with the embarrassment. 

“How are you feeling?” Hecuba ventured. 

Kassandra looked at her mother. She stood, somewhat tentatively, just inside the room. Her skin was pale, almost tinged with blue, and bloated, her hair dripping seawater and barnacles already nibbling at her flesh—

Kassandra blinked. Her mother still stood there, but the omen of death was gone. Healthy, if somewhat blotchy and tear-stained, skin. No water. No barnacles. Yet.

“Plagued with madness,” Kassandra retorted. “How’s the war?” 

The queen’s face shuttered. Her dress was torn in mourning, hair unkempt. 

Kassandra was allowed out of the tower for special occasions, when she behaved.  Hector’s funeral had been one of them.

She focused on the tear on the tunic. It would fit her, once she fixed the hole. Thinking about this was better than thinking about her dead brother. Hector had been a good man, sensible and honorable and fierce on the battlefield, wanting only to defend his home. He’d been kind to Kassandra even after her curse, visiting her in her tower with funny stories about their siblings and making sure none of the servants mistreated her. 

She’d seen the death coming, of course. But by then had learned not to talk about her visions. It wouldn’t have helped, anyway. Plenty of other people had told Hector he couldn’t defeat Achilles. Hector even agreed with them. But he’d still fought the duel to defend his city. Honor killed more men than the plague. 

“Your father’s sworn to make the Greeks pay,” Hecuba said. 

Kassandra gave an inelegant snort.

“They should,” said the woman sitting on the chair opposite of Kassandra. 

That caught both Trojan women’s attention. Queen Helen of Sparta sniffed at their expressions. “I liked Hector. He shouldn’t have been killed. None of this should’ve…” 

Hecuba huffed. “Yes, none of this should have happened. But it did, because of you.” 

Helen winced as if struck. 

“No, because of that cunt Paris,” Kassandra corrected. “And his stupidity, and pride, and selfishness.” 

“Kassandra! Don’t speak of your brother that way!”

“Aphrodite is also to blame.” 

“You will be silent!” Hecuba ordered. “I’ll not bring the wrath of the gods on this house!” 

Kassandra laughed bitterly. 

The queen huffed and left, leaving the two younger women in the room. 

“I think she’s starting to like us,” Kassandra said. 

Helen chuckled, focusing on her spinning. Some women really did get more beautiful as they aged, and since Helen was only in her mid-thirties, Kassandra privately thought that Aphrodite should be worried. Her black hair was just starting to silver, like stars in the night, and her eyes had a piercing intensity that could pin an army in place. 

She would be considered universally beautiful, physically perfect, if it weren’t for the scars. 

Kassandra hadn’t seen it. Hadn’t been trained in the Apollo temple at the time and so hadn’t treated it. But she’d heard—everyone had. Ten years ago now. After Helen had been brought to Troy and unable to convince them—or rather, convince Paris—to let her go even after the Greeks started war, she’d snuck a knife out of the kitchens and locked herself in her room, barricading the door so well that it had taken Paris, Hector, and two other men to break it down. When they finally got in, they’d found Helen busy carving up her own skin. Not fatally, she hadn’t gone for the major veins, arteries, or organs. Instead she’d slashed at her face, arms, breasts, legs, even neck, then rubbed ash into them to ensure that they would scar. She’d even shaved her head, the black locks mixing with blood on the marble floor.

“Am I still the most beautiful woman in the world?” she’d snarled.

Paris refused to give her up. “Aphrodite gave her to me, she’s mine,” he’d snapped when asked at court the next day. 

Helen had given birth the next year, proving that Paris definitely still found her attractive, or at least desirable. He kept her in line by swearing whatever harm she brought to herself would be replicated on their children. 

So Helen re-grew her hair and wore proper clothes and never touched a blade, giving birth to two more children by Paris. And when Kassandra was locked away in her tower, she visited almost every day. 

They didn’t talk about the gods, or their sufferings. When Kassandra had told her one of her visions, Helen had said, “You should keep those delusions to yourself. Don’t give the gods the satisfaction in hearing the madness they’ve given you.” 

That theory Helen had started was slightly better than believing she’d made up the whole story, so Kassandra accepted her company and didn’t share her visions. 

They worked in silence for a while. Kassandra mended the shirt, then set it aside, moving to her loom to work on a blanket. The shirt would go with the other clothes and supplies she’d hidden behind the loose stone in the wall behind her bed. 

Someone ran up the stairs—they could hear the sandals on stone before Paris burst into the room. He had two javelins sticking out of him, blood oozing out of his armor.

Kassandra blinked. The javelins vanished, leaving unblemished armor and an excited voice. “Wife! Come see!” 

Helen didn’t move, focusing on her spinning. “I’m not your wife.” 

“The Greeks have surrendered!” 

That got them moving. They set aside their crafts and hurried after Paris, down the stairs, to the dining hall that had a balcony that oversaw the entire city.

Everything was on fire, men roaring and women screaming as buildings fell over into ash—

Blink. Breathe. The vision vanished, leaving the city as it was. For now.

The buildings were all in one peace, and instead of screaming and crying, the people were cheering as a group of soldiers dragged a massive wooden horse through the streets. 

Paris pointed. “The Greeks left that for us before retreating. Apparently it’s a monument to Athena.” 

The urge to roll her eyes was so powerful, Kassandra felt she deserved a monument herself just for resisting it. I don’t even need to be a prophet to know this won’t end well. 

“Beware of Greeks bearing gifts,” she murmured. 

Paris did roll his eyes. “Not this again.”

“The ships?” Helen demanded. 

“Gone,” he said smugly. “Your Menelaus ran like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs.” 

Helen held herself rigidly, face stiff and unmoving like she did when she was trying not to cry. 

Kassandra knew she should keep her mouth shut. But Helen was the closest thing she had to a friend—she couldn’t let her suffer. 

“Perhaps they need a resupply, or reinforcements?” she suggested. “I don’t know anything about war, but this just seems strange, doesn’t it? I don’t think I’ve ever heard about the Greeks surrendering like this. Especially not Sparta.”

Helen took a shaky breath. “No. He’s gone. He left me.” 

Paris gloated. Kassandra glared at him, then at Helen.

Who was giving the horse a very considering look, a tiny smile hidden behind her hair. 

Oh, good, she’d figured it out, Kassandra thought, biting back her own smile.

Apollo may have given her a horrible curse, but there were ways around it.