In visions granted in sun-stroke, Cassandra sees her prophecies gone right - her brother kept at home, a war averted, a wooden horse burning high on the beach, screams lost to the crackling flames.

In her dreams, Hektor is king and greyed with age; Paris laughs at his side, gone fat and jolly; Creusa beams at her brood of grandchildren, and Cassandra -

Cassandra is not there, and she wakes with the sun’s glare in her eyes, harsh and pitiless; unforgiving, unrelenting, unbearable.