It was cold. She felt cold. That, which they call "the lover's embrace" was not what had been felt at all. Despite her pleas, her struggling, her cursing, he'd shown no pity towards her. No guilt, no kindness, no sympathy. Only lust, and she had been dirtied. Dirtied, humiliated, brutalized, raped. And his hands—Ajax's hands—were hands that weren't human.
... No, they were human. Human in every way. After all, what else could be expected of humans than to hurt everything they touched? Of their own gain or another's. And his had been rough, hard, cruel, and blood-covered.
Blood. Cassandra stared down at herself. Through her blurry, spotted vision, she saw a naked body laying mangled upon torn clothes and debris. A few minutes ago, it had been a body which had belonged to her. Now it belonged to any man who dragged her out as his prize. His toy. His slave. His woman. No longer she would live as a human, but a tool for rutting. But anyways, it was a fine-chiseled figure of white, marred by red stains from Ajax's hands and bruises that were already forming. Focusing on the triangle that formed on the apex of her thighs, blood poured from the insides of her broken body. Lucky for her, she no longer felt any pain. No, she had already transcended pain a long time ago; she was too used to it now. Now, she was only cold.
Her scraped, bloody hands curled around a piece of broken brick. Something else had been in her hands before. What was it again..?
Oh, right. The statue. He had ripped the statue from her hands when he had set himself upon her. Cassandra's eyes wandered about, focusing in and out of vision. Where was it? Where had it landed? Her gaze landed upon the far corner of the temple, where the figure of a proud woman with wings lay—Athena. Except now, she was in 2. The statuette had broken in half on impact when Ajax had thrown it. It was on that side of the temple where all the ruckus had gone. Archean soldiers swooped into the temple like devouring locusts. They scoured the place for its offerings, and its women. The Priestesses of Trojan Athena were the most beautiful women in the realm. Any other suppliants for the goddess would have been considered blasphemy.
These men were of Ajax's platoon, no doubt, for they were doing just as their commander had done: slaughtering all the priests they could find and ravishing the women—while still inside the temple. Cassandra watched from her dark hidden corner—where Ajax had dumped her like filth as soon as he was finished with her—as the women were being raped viciously. For some of them, the unfortunates, more than one soldier was upon them. Their screams of pain echoed in the mad princess' ears. Behind them was a backdrop of flames. The entire city of Troy was on fire beneath a black, thunder-clad sky. Hellish crimson light painted the walls, making it seem like the figures etched there were drowned in even more blood. Flesh-covered walls, agonized rutting, slaughter, fire, blackness. Verily, it seemed like a vision from Tartarus, a nightmare. In other words, nothing Cassandra had not already seen.
Hot tears spilled down her cheeks. She hated them. Her father, who locked her away for so long because he believed her mad. Hecuba, who stayed silent and never took her side. Helenus, who promised he'd never leave her, yet did. Her brothers, who were boasting, lying heathens that mocked her. Her sisters, who were nothing but gossiping hens who shunned her the first chance they had. Paris, who ruined everything just so that he could have his own lusty ways, and had no shame in doing so. Helen of fucking Sparta, who was just as guilty as Paris, albeit having ulterior motives to her schemes. The Trojans and Greeks alike, she hated them all. Selfish, ungrateful, fickle, greedy liars; the lot of them. She wished for more power, not for more visions but the power to kill them. The soldiers and priestesses alike. She'd kill them. She'd kill them. She'd kill them.
She'd slaughter them with her own hands, nary a prayer to the gods for success. She of all people understood that her honey-coated words would never work. The gods were just as guilty as humans: selfish, ungrateful, fickle, greedy liars. And they would never show pity upon her, nor the people out there, despite their wrongdoings. And she, Cassandra, was merely a pretty tool in their schemes. She'd kill them just as soon as the the Greeks. She'd kill them. She'd kill them. She'd kill them.
And then she heard it: the sound of a woman weeping in her ear. The tears, just as angry as hers, just as sorrowful. She wanted to save these women just as much as she did, wanted to kill them too. Set fire not to just ungrateful Troy, whom she had sacrificed everything to, but to this entire world full of sin. But she also heard the pluck of the lyre, and her mind suddenly became bereft of the briefly comforting vision.
Not him. Don't let him come.
But he was here, she knew. He was here beside her, caressing her hurts with his golden fingertips, as if to cradle a broken toy to himself. His pale hair tickled her nose as he embraced her and he sang a sickly sweet lullaby in her ear. She raged within herself. She would kill him too. By whatever means, she would kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.
And then she blacked out.
Man I feel like this one kind of sucked. And I know I should be working on my other story with Melantriche and Apollo, but oh well. I just wanted to write about something fucked up. Also I love Cassandra and I wanted to give some background on Apollo's character. Remind that I don't even know where this one is going or even how long it's gonna be but fuck it let's do it anyway.