"It's all coming now" she whispered as her fingers traced the cracks on the mirror.
A tiny line of blood formed on her finger and she smiled dreamily, reaching up to lick the crimson drops.
A hand at her shoulder drew her away from her reflection.
She turned and eyes that could not see looked up at the shadowed figure.
"Cassandra" he spoke, voice full of painful sorrow.
She cocked her head at him.
"It's coming" she warned.
She drifted away from him towards the books that she could not read, humming to a tune that only she could hear.
She was quite mad, she often thought when the night crowded in around her and the winds of fate screamed at her. Daring her to speak the future that she knew was approaching. Laughing at her failure in making them believe.
Their was a soft swishing as the male moved, the long drapery of his tunic brushing against his legs as he approached her.
"What is, my lady?" he humored her.
She traced symbols in the air. Webs of design and old power. Power that not even he had expected in this isolated tower.
The world said she was dangerously insane and had to be locked away. They hadn't told him she was beautiful.
He was a soldier, just recently out of boyhood and uncomfortable in his new body. But he knew that he loved the strange woman at the top of the tower who foretold the doom of all.
Even her brother had deserted her for the glory of the battle outside.
And so he watched and guarded her from her own self-inflicted harm.
Although he could not believe her words.
"The end" she answered without meaning.
Sometimes she scared him with her mad laughter and the way the shadows seemed to flicker around her.
The gods had gifted her with terrible power, but it was a double-edged sword. For such power became her doom, the string attached to foresight, none believed her. Thus her rejected lover had his revenge.
Outside of her rooms the heat was oppressive, the sound of fighting beyond the walls a constant roar against one's ears. Horses screaming over the battle cries of the heroes. The clash of swords.
"The end" he whispered to himself.
The sweat dripped down his back, staining his tunic. There was barely any shade and the water resources were running low after such a long seige.
But the enemy was retreating, running, surrendering. A great gift was being brought through the gates.
At the top of the tower, Cassandra wept.