From the very second you are born, your life is a nightmare. You are nothing but a simple playing piece. A pawn in the gods' game. Doomed to a terrifying fate.
Your childhood is brief. Lonely. You have no one in the palace your own age. Your father, Lord Priam, has many wives and concubines, and therefore many children, but you are not permitted to play with any of them. Lady Hecuba, your mother, keeps you hidden. You do not know why. You dare not complain.
You are still young, twelve or thirteen, when your beauty catches the eye of Apollo himself, lord of the sun, god of medicine, music, and reason. He follows you as a puppy would its master, showering you with his promises of love. He even grants you the gift of prophecy. Flashes of the future. Glimpses of what will come to be.
You thank him, though you are uncomfortable. You are not ready for such things. You tell Apollo you do not love him in return as gently as you can. He flies into a rage, just as you feared. He curses you: no one will believe your prophecies in all of eternity.
From then on, your visions become worse. You see blood, torture, rape, murder. You hear shouts of fire, the groans of the dying, the cries of the children, the screams of the women. It nearly drives you insane.
Hecuba is frightened of you. The entire palace is. Your brother, Helenus, sees you as a mutant. Prince Hector looks down on you with pity. Priam's household stays away from you. They even give you a nickname.
The Mad Princess.
"Poor Cassandra," bounces off the polished marble walls.
"Princess Cassandra screams again…Poor girl," echoes in your ears.
Prince Paris, another of your brothers, returns from nowhere, carrying a prize with him. His aura has changed. Haughtier. Prouder. More confident. As soon as you see him another vision flashes before your eyes:
The divine Hermes, leading three beautiful goddesses down to Mount Ida, where Paris waits. Their beauty stuns you. They stare greedily at a golden apple in Paris' palm: the golden apple of discord. Eris's apple.
You see what occurred. Eris, angry of her exclusion at Thetis's wedding. The apple flying into the air, accompanied with the shout, "For the fairest!". The three goddesses rushing forward: Hera, Athena, Aphrodite. They bribe Paris. Power from Hera. Wisdom from Athena. A wife from Aphrodite.
Your brain threatens to burst at the visions invading your mind. A lady, so beautiful she could be mistaken for a goddess. A queen in a faraway land, unaware of the greedy promise Aphrodite made.
Helen.
Paris, stealing her from Sparta, raiding her husband's treasury. Sailing back to Troy with mounds of gold, taking the queen into his bed. The city stares in wonder as she parades down the street. You hear the oohs and ahhs at her gorgeous robes, her face, her hair, her lips.
Lord Priam, Lady Hecuba, the whole palace readies to greet Paris and his new lover in the foyer. Even you are permitted to enter. You feel the terror, the rage, building inside of you.
You explode when she enters the room.
"WHORE!" you scream. "Tramp! Bringer of death! You will leave this city in ruins! You will cause us all to BURN!"
Helen seems terrified at your words. You continue to rant and scream. Those horrific visions flood you again: seeing the city bathed in fire makes you scream all the louder. Helen whispers to Paris, who signals to the guards.
They drag you away, with you still shrieking your prophecies to Helen. You see it in her face; she knows. Yet she does not believe you. None of them do.
You are the first to see the Greeks. You awaken at an ungodly hour of the morning, sobbing. No one comes to save you from your nightmares. Only when your screams of death echo through the palace does anyone come—but only to quiet you.
"SHE WILL BRING DEATH TO US ALL!" you shriek. No one believes you. Apollo's curse stands strong.
All are surprised when Greek ships suddenly raid Troy's ports. The gates are closed. No one is permitted in or out of the walls. The battle ensues.
Day after day you stand at the window, eyes wide, seeing each blow before it is struck, living each death before Hades takes the next victim. The blood forever stains the earth.
You scream more of the future. This is only the beginning, you swear. More blood, more death, more agony. No one listens.
The people of Troy hope the war will be over. Many curse Helen and Paris for bringing this on them. Women lose their husbands, children lose their brothers and their fathers.
And the palace rejoices. Helen and Paris are oblivious to the war around them. They giggle and feed each other food, hardly bother to rise from their bed during the day. You hear their grunts and strains all the way in your chambers.
You cry yourself to sleep. The screams of the battle outside the walls reach into the palace. It digs into your ears as knife would to stone. You cannot block the sound.
You see another flash: Hector, killing Patroclus, Achilles' cousin. Achilles shouting at Hector to fight. Hector murdered. His body desecrated. Again you attempt to warn your brother. But he is already on the battle field.
You are standing on the walls, watching Hector fall. Andromache, his faithful wife, screams. Her cries of agony shake the palace itself as she is forced to watch Achilles tie Hector's body to his chariot and drag it in circles in the dirt.
You are crying once again. Andromache's child, Astyanax, is without a father. Andromache herself is without her husband. Helen, running to Hector's wife.
Andromache pushes her away, screaming at her the very words you shouted yourself.
"YOUR FAULT HECTOR IS DEAD!" she shrieks, tears streaming down her face. "WHORE! HE WANTED YOU, I KNOW HE WANTED YOU!" She breaks down. Helen takes her in her arms wordlessly, leading her away.
Your next prophecy comes true as well. Paris's arrow pierces Achilles' mortal spot—his heel. Achilles falls. Philoctetes swears revenge.
You see the future once again. Hermes, leading Priam to the Greek camp. Priam begging Achilles for Hector's corpse. His words echo in your ears.
"I have endured what no man on earth has ever done before—I put my lips to the hands of the man who killed my son."
You envision Philoctetes. He confronts Paris. Paris runs. An arrow flies. A scratch appears on the prince's arm, but he falls to the ground, writhing in agony. Philoctetes glows in the death of his enemy, shouting his victory to the sky.
Helen screams, one, long, wail of pain.
You watch your next vision with tears in your eyes. Helen and a group of soldiers rush Paris to Mount Ida, to his first lover, Oenone. The nymph, who promised to restore what ever health Paris ever lost, refuses to heal him out of jealousy for Helen.
Paris dies. Helen seems frozen, emotionless. Lost.
It is only at Paris's funeral pyre that Oenone reveals the truth. She screams, throwing herself dramatically on the flames. Helen watches her burn. A tear slips down her cheek.
Mere days later, your curse of prophecy returns to you in a dream: the Greeks retreating. Your heart lifts, but soon after the happy image, a dark one follows. The Greek prince Odysseus leaves a trick that will be the true end of Troy.
You try to tell anyone that will listen: Priam, Hecuba, Andromache, your nurse, the servants, even Helen, but none pay mind to you. They are all in awe of the lovely present the Greeks left behind: a magnificent wooden horse, standing taller than even the walls.
You become hysterical. You shout warnings to the entire city. But they ignore you.
"The Mad Princess screams again," the servants whisper.
"The Mad Princess will drive herself to her death," the maids murmur.
In the end, only your twin Helenus, pays heed to your words. He goes to protest atop the horse, spreading your prophecy to the Trojans. They dismiss him with exasperated waves of the hand. They weigh him down with cruel words. They do not listen.
You awake sobbing once again, but your screams are drowned out in the sounds of the city under attack. The Greeks. Hiding in the horse. The ships, concealed behind an island.
Suddenly the great city of Troy is bathed in fire, as you predicted. You hide in your chambers as the palace is raided. You hear all habitants being dragged outside, to be killed, raped, or tortured. The heartless Greeks. The heartless Helen.
You slip out in the confusion of battle. You find yourself hurrying toward Athena's temple. Perhaps the goddess will take pity on you.
As soon as your bare foot touches the cold marble threshold, you know your fate. A terrible one. But inevitable.
You crouch at the goddess's feet, hidden in the shadows. You hope her stone skirts will protect you, hide you from the war outside. You pray she will take you away from the bloodshed.
Footsteps ring out in the temple. Rough hands drag out from the illusion of safety. Before you see a face, before you recognize the features, before you see the chilling glimmer in the eyes, you know who it is.
Ajax.
You kick him. You scramble to your feet, dashing for the door, though you know you cannot outrun him. He catches you. He pins you to the cold floor. You know your fate.
You scream the goddess's name. You plead her to save you. But as Ajax forces your legs apart, you know. She will not save you. She has turned her back on Troy. Paris's fault. Helen's fault.
Ajax holds you in Athena's temple for seconds, minutes, hours, violent and without mercy. His hands squeeze you too tightly. His body suffocates you.
You cry silently, but you cannot fight him. The pain makes you want to scream.
You are sobbing when he finishes with you. He throws you over his shoulder roughly, carries you away. Carries you through the heat of the battle. You see Helen, standing at the palace window. Her eyes meet yours.
You see the regret in her eyes. The silent apology. She knows your prophecies were correct.
You can never forgive her. Not for what she has done to your home. Never.
Ajax takes you to Agamemnon, king of Mycenae. You are his new consort. You are silent. You allow Agamemnon to use you as he wishes. Your heart is broken, still. You feel nothing. You no longer care for life.
You see your demise as soon as Mycenae is in the ship's sights. Agamemnon's queen, Clytemnestra, is waiting for you at the gates of the palace. Helen's sister. Her smile is composed, frozen. To you she resembles Chione, the goddess of snow. Just as beautiful. Just as cold.
You know of Clytemnestra's plan. You see it as she smiles at Aegisthus over the rim of her goblet. As she and Agamemnon walk up the steps to the palace, her cold eyes rest on you. You shiver.
You are to stay in the chariot until Agamemnon fetches you. You feel your eyes drooping. After the exhaustion of the battle, sleep finally has you in its clutches. Your eyes close against your will.
You are not surprised when you dream of the carefully executed plan that night. Clytemnestra, urged by Aegisthus, murdering Agamemnon over the death of her beloved daughter, Iphigenia.
Your death is inevitable. You climb out of the chariot. You carefully go up the steps to the palace, past the guards, past the children, past the servants. Your head lifts as you hear their words.
"It is she."
"The prophetess."
"Survivor of Troy."
"The Mad Princess."
"Cassandra."
Clytemnestra and Aegisthus are arguing as you enter the great hall. Clytemnestra's gown is bathed in something red. Blood. Hanging from her hand is something sharp, glinting in the firelight.
They are surprised to see you. But they do not attempt to hide their crime. The queen smiles coldly. You close your eyes as you hear her feet lighting across the floor. You make no sound as the cold dagger plunges into your heart with a warm stab of pure pain.
"I am no Mad Princess," are your last words before your breath abandons your lips.
The life leaves your body. Your spirit goes to Elysium. You died as a true heroine, the judges say. You need no trial. You are to reside there, among the increasing numbers of the Trojan dead for eternity.
You are no Mad Princess.