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tigriswolf ([personal profile] tigriswolf) wrote in [community profile] comment_fic2012-12-22 12:04 am
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Saturday free-for-all

Today's Saturday, so that means free-for-all.

Y'all know the rules, dudes. Have fun!
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[identity profile] odette-river.livejournal.com 2012-12-22 01:38 pm (UTC)(link)
Greek Mythology, Cassandra/Apollo, better run girl

tw: implied non-con

[identity profile] rattyjol.livejournal.com 2012-12-23 08:30 am (UTC)(link)
Her crime is composing poetry.

The words flow from her lips like a summer's breeze, bobbing across the chamber and out the window, to escape above the city. She lies back on her bed and recites fully-formed stanzas to the ceiling (she thinks); the lines take shape on the way from her self to her tongue and unravel again once spoken.

And then suddenly he is there, in lowly human form and a burst of sunlight, poised gracefully on a stool and strumming his lyre to fit to her words.

She sits, the unfinished poem festering like a half-healed wound inside her. "My lord," she says to the god in her bedchamber. She has been taught how to speak to princes and kings and lords from a thousand distant lands, but none of her tutors ever told her how to speak to a god in her bedchamber.

"Your poetry pleases me, my lady." He smiles like the sun. "I should like to listen to it forever."

"I fear your lord uncle may have something to say about that, my lord. We mortals are, generally speaking, quite mortal."

"Bah, Hades." He strokes two fingers down her cheek. She feels briefly dizzy, as though from too much time spent in the sun. "He could not touch you on Olympus."

"Would you take me then, my lord, and leave King Priam with only eleven daughters?"

"He has two and threescore children. He will not miss you."

"Perhaps not." She frowns. "And would you take me to wife, my lord? Would I be by your side always? Or would I be locked away, a forgotten princess in a lonely tower? Forgive me, my lord, but the gods have never been kind to their mortal consorts."

"Your beauty has captured me. Your verse has no equal among men and gods alike, and the words fall from your tongue like sunlight. How could I help but love one such as you until the very fall of Olympus?"

"I have many sisters, my lord. I have seen men promise them wealth and marriage, only to leave them weeping. Like the sun, love must rise and set, but in between it seems as if it will hang in the sky forever. No. Forgive me, my lord, but I must decline."

And suddenly -- like a bolt of thunder, like a quarrel from Apollo's golden bow -- she is struck with the knowledge of what those words have (will) cost her. "My lord," she whispers. "Please, you cannot . . ."

"I can," he murmurs, brushing a lock of hair from her eyes. "One of the many benefits of being a god. I can."

When he is finished he picks up his lyre and straightens his laurels. "A forgotten princess in a lonely tower," he echoes back to her. "You know everything, now."

"Yes," she whispers, the flames of Troy roaring behind her eyelids. He is gone then. The unfinished poem still lingers within her, but the rest will not come. And now -- now, only -- she sheds a tear for all the things that have been (will be) lost.

[identity profile] eaemilia.livejournal.com 2012-12-24 03:50 am (UTC)(link)
When she sees him, she knows. He looks human, but there’s something about the way the light bends around him and how she feels like she can’t breathe that tells her that he is no mere mortal.

And she runs.

She has heard the stories of what gods do to their mortal toys. She doesn’t want to be the plaything of a god. Sometimes, she is little more than one in Troy, but at least that is her home.

But even though she runs as far and as fast as she can, she can’t outrun a god. He is there the entire time; she can feel the heat on her back, the laughter floating through the air, and she knows that he is merely playing with her.

When her legs give out, he is right there, laying a burning hand over her eyes. She screams as the heat sears through her, leaving nothing untouched.

And then he is gone, and she can see. A thousand possible futures reveal themselves, but in all of them, she sees her city burning.

And she speaks, warnings of what the future holds and desperate pleas for anyone to listen to her falling off her tongue.

But no one does.

Sometimes, he’ll visit her again. She never sees him, but she’ll feel the press of heat against her back or hear his taunting laughter, all cruel reminders that if she just hadn’t run…
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