Circe had believed, honestly and foolishly believed, that they could have maybe an hour of peace. In the immediate aftermath of the Cyclops and the lotus eaters, the storms and sea monsters and Aeolus and Poseidon of all creatures, she had thought, stupidly thought, that she could close her eyes and rest for a moment.
It hadn't even been an hour since she'd dispatched a group made up of her remaining crew when she heard frantic footsteps rushing towards her room followed by quick knocking. She had not been sleeping — she doubted she'd manage to do more than dose off slightly before being startled awake by a nightmare in a long time — but she still cracked open her eyes with dread.
Medea — her second in command, her scorned niece — collapsed into Circe's arms when she opened the door. She was covered in sweat and grime, with dirt up to her knees, twigs in her hair, and a wild look in her eyes.
“Medea!” Circe cried, gathering her in her arms. “What happened? Where's everyone else?”
“We need to leave,” she said, taking Circe by the shoulders. “This island's a trap, and we fell right into it.”
“... What happened with the rest of the crew?” Circe asked, slowly, dread spreading through her veins like coldness.
“They’re not with us anymore,” Medea said, shaking.
“They're dead?” Her voice rose an octave.
It couldn't be. They couldn't be dead. Not after all that had happened, not after all that they had lost.
Medea shook her head. They both looked alike, dark hair and sun kissed skin, with golden eyes, though Medea's were a more humane looking color, a sign that the blood of Helios was more diluted in her. The sight of her distress always cut a particularly deep wound into Circe's heart.
“Worse,” said Medea, putting her head in her hands. “They're animals now.”
Circe blinked.
“Huh?”
An expression of horror crossed her niece's face. “By the gods, they're probably being made into dinner as we speak.”
Circe banished the horrific mental image and tried to keep the conversation on track. “Tell me how that came to be,” she demanded.
“We came across a palace, and from the inside we heard a voice —it seemed to show no malice— and so our crew decided to take their chances when the master of the house offered us a place at his table. Only I stayed outside, but the rest went in.”
“But why did they do that?” She despaired. “Have they learned nothing? The lotus eaters! Did they forget about the lotus eaters?”
“Well,” Medea flushed. “He got them in just two words.”
“Which were?”
“Come inside.”
“Ah.”
“Yes.” Medea coughed. “He casted some sort of spell on them, or used some potion,and he changed them! He turned our crew, from men to pigs! They began to squeal and oink. They grew snouts and tails.” She shuddered. “I spied from outside the windows, and— It wasn't quick. It looked like it hurt.”
Circe breathed in. “We have to go save them.”
Medea shot up to her feet. “No, we don't! It was their own stupidity that got them in that trap, the rest of us should just cut our losses and run. We have to leave with what few men we have left and leave these ones to their fate.”
Circe smiled sadly. “I'm sorry,” she said. “You know I can't do that. I won't let behind a single comrade. Of course I'd love to leave now, of course I'd love to rest. But I can hardly sleep now, thinking of all those that I've hurt. I can't possibly abandon them to their fate.”
Medea looked at her. It was hard to describe the look on her face, guarded and hurt. Circe turned around, and started parsing her room for armor and weapons. She changed from her sleeping clothes into a white chiton, hoisted it up a leg with a leather holster, and armored herself with a breastplate and arm guards. It may have been too much for a reconnaissance mission, but considering how her crew had fared, it would be better for her to go prepared. She tied her sandals around her feet and covered herself with a chlamys, the one her sister weaved for her, and pinned it with the sun shaped brooch her brother had gifted her. That had been when they'd been young, before Jason, and the Minotaur.
“What if he can't be killed?” Medea asked into the quiet. “If there's nothing to be done, will we leave?”
She wanted to say, No, we won't leave any comrades behind, not anymore but a singular thought floated in her head, her reason for every single loss she'd suffered so far. Scylla.
Circe needed to see her again.
“I have something that I need to tell you,” started Medea.
Circe shook her head. “Later, tell me when I come back.”
Medea was silent for a moment. “As you wish, Captain.”
The island was, as far as the eye could see, a paradise on earth.
The tame turquoise waters lapped gently at the pale gold of the shimmering sand, with pink and blue and white seashells, looking perfect for playing around on the shore. Slowly it closed up and made way for trees and bushes, verdant and lush. The smell of dead plants mixed with the scent of fresh soil.
It took her until she was deep within the innards of the island to realize what had her on edge the entire time. No fruit grew from the trees.
The sky was steadily darkening, from a clear blue to a rosy pink as her father finished his round for the day. Somewhere behind her back, she heard a giggle, loud and high-pitched. No attempt was made to hide whatsoever, even as whoever it was had been careful not to make any sound as they trailed after her. Quietly, she reached for the hilt of her sword.
“Who goes there?”
The giggles gut louder, closer, and no footsteps were heard. Had the sorcerer decided to come out and meet her herself?
“Just a friend,” the voice said, sounding young and boyish. “Who can help you save your crew. A foe like Odysseus is not one to mess with, if you want to beat him you'll need the blessing of a certain god. Someone who's not afraid to… send a message.”
Circe felt a headache building deep within. “... Hermes?”
The giggling was right next to her ear now. Circe swatted at it like a fly.
Hermes floated next to her, bare-chested and showing the expanse of his skin, wearing his winged sandals and with his staff in hand. His hat played shadows on his face. He always looked like he was smiling, even when he wasn't. As someone that had some divine blood herself, Circe knew that the appearance of immortal beings were unnerving for humans. Her own, with the pupil-less golden eyes and lion-like mane, was enough of an example, but she reckoned Hermes's wings would surely cause more of a commotion.
“The one and only.”
“What is it this time?”
He made an oof sound. “No warm welcome for me?” He pouted.
Circe was unimpressed. “The last time I saw you, you sent us directly into the lair of a sea monster.”
“It was the only way forward,” he said shamelessly, “that is, if you didn't want to face Poseidon again.”
“I lost a dozen of my men!” Circe snapped.
“And you would have lost less,” he said, “if you hadn't decided to fight the Ship Wrecker, that's why you're in this mess.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” She demanded.
“Of course,” Hermes descended on soundless footfalls next to her, “you've never been one to leave behind your comrades.” He extended a hand towards her. “I assume it's the same today, isn't it?”
Circe sighed. That was answer enough.
He clapped his hands together with excitement. “He’s a clever sorcerer, and hard to slay—not like you should try it in any case. The problems that would cause you alone make it not worth it.”
Circe bit the inside of her cheek. “And why is that?”
Hermes smiled. It showed too many teeth, too white, too perfect.
“I was hoping you'd ask that.” He conjured a vision, showing to her a dozen pigs trotting fearfully to the slaughter, making her eyes widen with horror. “He can turn you into an animal that'll end up on his plate.” It changed to the face of an attractive man, his features undistinguishable in all ways except that she knew that he was beautiful with the same security she knew the sun rose every morning. “He can make you fall in love like you're on your hundredth date.” It changed again, to the hydra and the sirens and the cyclops and more monsters than she could count. “Or he can conjure up a monster that'll grind your bones to dust.”
“Great,” said Circe, trying to ignore the dread.
Hermes raised a bony finger, smile widening. “Luckily, you have me to lend a hand. Wouldn't you like to havе some magic? For things to finally go your way? This fight could be tragic, but I'll help you conquer him.”
“Great!” Said Circe, trying to grasp some hope and ignore the innuendo. “How are we going to do this?”
Hermes laughed. He reached down to the floor, amidst the verdant greenery of the grass, and where he touched, there grew a small white flower, unimpressive in anything save its blinding purity. “Here in this flower lies the power you need to take him on. It'll help you manifest a being of your creation, all you need is imagination. You need to consume it for it to work.” Hermes winked, and leaned conspiratorially over her. “I call this root Holy Moly.”
“Ah.” A pause. “How long does it last?” She asked, gingerly taking it with her hand.
“Only for a moment, ‘til you've beaten your opponent, so best be quick.”
“Got it,” she said, taking the flower to her mouth and chewing on it slowly. It tasted like petals, at first, but it left the taste of ambrosia as it went down.
Hermes giggled, and then he wrapped his arms around her, taking her up in the air as she yelped. The sun was setting at their back, her father as distant as ever. For a moment, Circe was high up in the air, feeling the coldness of the air kissing her skin, breathless and immortal, and then Hermes started his descent and deposited her on the ground again, holding her so she wouldn't stumble.
“Hermes,” she said, as he prepared to take off again. “Thank you.”
His smile softened. “Don't thank me, friend. Just try not to die.” He seemed to almost hesitate for a moment. “And try not to kill him, for your sake.”
“What?”
But having said his piece, Hermes had already taken flight.
Circe watched in astonishment, and considered throwing a rock at him.
She counted to ten, bit the inside of her cheek, and set off to look for the sorcerer.
Slowly, the path cleared, revealing a pebbled road flanked by many colorful flowers, beckoning her forward. It was a beautiful view, all the flowers in one place, mixing together without rhyme or reason. The view was marred, however, by the oddly spread statues across the clearing. Circe felt a chill crawl up to her spine as she inspected them. Many of them showed expressions of horror and fear, wide-eyed, mouth parted in a silent scream, despite the fine craftsmanship used to work their clothes and the movement of them. They were well taken care of, polished and stainless; red and yellow flowers growing at their feet in an almost deliberate wilderness.
Circe turned her back to them when she felt like their sightless eyes were digging into her, most as if pleading. It was the expressions, she told herself. There was something awfully human about them.
The palace was blindingly white marble, pure as snow, grand amidst the lofty greenery of the trees. It sat atop the peak of a rocky cliff that descended into the now calm sea. The waters that lapped at the cliff were wilder than the ones at the beach with foam teeth snarling against the rocks, though still nowhere near the intensity of the lair of the sea monster they escaped, with her grasping clutches and maniac bright indigo eyes, her long ink black hair pooling into the violent sea current as she reached for her crew like a child for a toy.
Her eyes lingered on the sight of stairs carved into it, disappearing under water. Could it be that the palace, despite its appearance was so old that part of the island had disappeared underwater? She wouldn't doubt it, seeing as Hermes had warned her that Athena was fond of the sorcerer that lived here. An immortal being, or a god-blessed man, and whichever it was spelled trouble for her. She cursed herself for not being quicker to ask Hermes her question.
As she neared the palace, she had no doubt it would have been a lovely sight in broad daylight, one that would soothe the eyes and soul of weary mariners, and while it remained beautiful deep at night, she couldn't shake a sense of foreboding as she watched the moon silhouette it.
She could see smoke rising from the chimney, and felt a pang as she realized that probably meant a gratuitous dinner was being cooked for the inhabitants of the palace.
Circe realized with a start that she had not seen any animal on the island.
Her crew… They couldn't be made into dinner, could they?
With the horrific mental image fresh in her mind, she rushed to the steps of the palace, hiding her hand under her chlamys and gripping her small dagger, where she heard the sound of a man's clear voice singing sweetly. All noise dimmed as she knocked on the door, then she heard hard footsteps and two men flanked the suddenly open doors, the song returning in full fervor.
The men looked… different. She understood quickly that the palace was not owned merely by a god-blessed mortal, as she'd hoped, but rather of an immortal himself. Who else would have nature spirits opening his doors and acting as his staff?
“Beautiful night, isn't it?” Asked one of them, with glasses.
Circe plastered a fake smile on her face. “Very.”
They descended into silence. All that could be heard was the lull of the wind and the sea crashing against the cliff, and the song from inside the palace.
One of the men, the more solid looking one, had rich dark skin and hair was shorn close to his skull, showcasing sharp lines and dark eyes on a clever face. He was dressed in a chiton that although simply cut and adorned, dyed a dark red, a broadsword hanging from his hip. Odd markings covered his skin without any seeming rhyme or reason, almost looking like scars.
The other one looked like a hard enough breeze would make him blow away, a spear dangling precariously from his slack hand, wind swept curls dark curls framing his brown eyes, covered by round glasses. His pale blue, almost white, chiton that went below his knees fluttered with the wind; ribbons of the same color tied around his left wrist and right ankle, contrasting with his bronzed skin.
Circe coughed awkwardly. “I was hoping to meet with the king of the island.”
“I'm afraid that won't be possible,” said the one with the marks. His eyes laid on the hold of her sword.
Circe considered the pros and cons of attacking the guards and slaying her way until she found the sorcerer and forced him to turn her crew into humans again. That is, a treacherous voice whispered inside her, if they're not dinner already.
“Listen—” She said, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“Polites, Eurylochus, let her in,” called the singing voice from the inside. “We can't turn away any weary traveler, can we?”
The two guards shared a heavy look, and she worried they would disobey and just stab her where she stood, but then they stepped aside to let her into the palace. They trailed after her as she followed the sound of the singing and lyre, speaking to each other in low tones that sounded like the rustling of the leaves and branches to her ear. The doors closed loudly after her.
It was as grand on the inside as it was on the outside, clean and brimming with flowers of all sorts, wind chimes playing about as the man with glasses glided behind her with a flutter of his clothes. Grand tapestries decorated the halls, showing the skies and the seas and the stars, owls and snakes, monsters and sea creatures. Despite herself, she found herself impressed by the craftsmanship that had clearly gone into the weavings.
Circe fell to a full stop when she heard the sound of commotion occuring on a not so distant corner of the palace. Pig's squeals and agitated running.
The pig looked out of place in the white marble walls, heaving and sweating. Its black eyes were beady and afraid and they locked with Circe's, who stood frozen. It tried to run towards her, making erratic sounds.
The man with the broadsword’s eyes went impossibly big, though the other one jumped into action and brandished the spear at the pig when it appeared, pointing at it with sharp, fluid motions, and corralled it against the wall. His expression, just a mere moments ago placid and smiling, had turned hard. Circe could only watch in horror, her muscles locked in tension, as the elderly woman that had been chasing the pig held it down.
The man in red wrapped her arms around her and dragged her away. “Apologies,” he said tightly. His grip on her was not bruising, but it wordlessly corralled her to keep walking. “It must have escaped.”
Circe nodded, too stunned to speak, feeling anger begin to simmer under her skin. Could that be one of the members of her crew? It had to be. What other reason would there be for the pig to escape from its corral, to run so desperately, to look at her like that? The eyes had been animal, but she couldn't shake the feeling that the creature had gazed at her with recognition.
How dare the sorcerer king of the island do that, no matter whether the favored daughter of the thunder bringer was fond of him herself? Who was he, to play with the lives of others like that?
(Scylla—)
The man led her to a wide open room, all pillars, gauzy curtains made of thread so fine they were practically see-through, where she heard the melodious singing of two voices. The sound of laughter and singing over looms and spindles spread such a homey feeling over her, for a moment she couldn't miss her childhood enough and the days spent with her sisters and mother and aunts gossiping as they worked.
She was surprised to see two men working the cloth, and at first could not tell whether they were brothers or father and son, so similar they looked as she entered the room, though upon closer inspection she noticed the differences.
The one with the spindle and distaff had darker hair and a paler face, something more angular to his features despite his apparent youth. His clever fingers worked the wool already dyed red into thread, dark blue violet eyes intent on it. He was dressed richly, with earrings and bracelets wrought out of gold, and that just made the appearance of him working the wool more astonishing.
The other one worked the warp weighted loom, singing that sweet song she'd heard. He had a softer, rounder looking face than the other one, despite their resemblance, and his hair was russet brown rather than inky black, his skin olive rather than pale. He looked older, in some way that Circe could not identify, in a gleaming pearl white confection and an olive green himation. He smiled serenely when he saw Circe at the door. His eyes were wide and gray.
“Eurylochus,” he said in that clear melodious voice, addressing the other man, “where is Polites?”
“There was an incident with the pigs.”
He tutted. “If you would do me the favor of going to ensure no other incidents occur…” Circe wanted to pierce his slender neck with a spear. “Telemachus, why don't you go to the kitchen and order some dinner to be taken to the guest room, after the servants have drawn her some of your mother's old clothes and a warm bath to loosen her limbs?”
“Very kind,” Circe said through a fake smile as the other two left. “Though, I'd like to speak with you for a moment.”
He smiled. “Of course! What might it be about?”
He knows, she thought. And so does she. And they both had to play a veneer of kindness.
Circe breathed in. “Master of the palace, I've been told of rather distressing news, and I hope that I've been misinformed. You see, through the years we seldom get a warm welcome, until we found ourselves knocking at your door. However, I can't help but notice that I can't see my crew anywhere, or even hear them, so I hope you understand why I must ask… Did you do something to them?”
The sorcerer blinked his wounded doe eyes at her, exaggeratedly batting his lashes. “Who? Me? I'd never dare.”
“Really?” Circe asked drily. “Why don't you tell me about the pigs.”
“Huh,” he said, and he finally dropped all pretenses. His face lost that kindly mask and turned hard as stone. He stood up with surprising speed, sending the cloth tumbling to the floor. There was not even a hint of his previous kindness as he looked at her with contempt. “You're Circe, aren't you? Daughter of Helios?” He smiled, grin widening when he saw the small step she involuntarily took back. It must be the eyes that tipped him off, she told herself. “The one who crossed the lair of the Ship Wrecker, and injured her as well. Yes, I know who you are.”
Circe shamelessly placed her hand over her sword's hilt. “I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage here, since I have no idea who you are.”
“I have you at a disadvantage in more than that way,” he said, with a smile. She had never met someone as infuriating in her life. “I am Odysseus, student of Athena.”
Hermes, the next time I see you—
Circe breathed in. “You turned my crew into pigs.”
“All I did was pay them back for their insult.” He shrugged. “And though it was a different manner, I would even consider our quarrel settled, if you leave them here with me.”
Circe narrowed her eyes. “What quarrel?”
“You passed through the lair of Penelope, and you dared attack her.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“She's my wife.”
“What?”
The thin, doe-eyed young man, sorcerer king of the paradise island, with his thin hands and melodious voice… was married to the gigantic sea monster with claws for hands and skin like a corpse and two pits for eyes? The one with a second mouth in the back of her head?
And the other man, the one that just left—
“You had a son with the Ship Wrecker Penelope?” She could not hide the astonishment in her voice.
“Yes,” he said, almost as if daring her to pursue the thought. “And it's thanks to his intervention that I was willing to consider leniency, against your crew and you.”
“That is no good reasoning for turning my crew into animals.”
“Your crew,” he hissed the word with venom, “are a bunch of pigs. Worry not though, I'll spare you being made into dinner. You'll make for a fetching statue.”
And the statues are people. Of course they are.
Circe smiled, baring her teeth. “You will fail at placing any spells on me. You see, I just ate a special flower, so you better hurry and turn my crew back.”
“You lie.” He narrowed his eyes. “Mortals can't acquire moly without dire consequences.”
“I am no ordinary mortal,” Circe told him. “You yourself said it. My father is Helios, the rider of the sun chariot himself. A titan. And I'm a demigoddess.”
“Hermes gave it to you, didn't he?”
“Well, yes, but—” She sighed. “That's not what's important here.” Circe brandished her sword. “What’s important now is that you and I are now evenly matched.”
He smiled, baring teeth. “We'll see about that.”
He waved one of his hands upward, and in front of her eyes he conjured a monster: a lion with a goat's head on its back and a tail that ended in a snake's head.
Circe closed her eyes, and thought back to the cyclops in the Lotus Eaters’ island. His towering height and thick body, the club and the singular eye.
The cyclops manifested in front of her, in all his gigantic glory, and started attacking the chimera, swinging at it with the thick wooden club. Strong but slow, that had been her assessment back then, and it remained true. Surround him, attack from behind, with distance in mind. You had to make him tumble, make him fall, to defeat him.
She hoped that the chimera would get trampled at its feet, even as he noted it was fast and could run circles around the cyclops.
As the cyclops and the chimera battled, Circe grabbed her sword and lunged at the sorcerer, hoping to catch him off guard. He startled as she tried to stab him, rolling onto the floor and taking the loom down with him, the weavings and threads falling to the side. They avoided being crushed by the foot of the dragging cyclops by a hair, only to nearly be bitten by the snake head tail of the chimera.
The cyclops groaned and the chimera roared.
The sorcerer uppercut her and she almost dropped her sword. His punch had more strength than she expected, seeing as he was small and showed no signs of weapon training or muscle. Student of Athena, she reminded herself, even as she had no idea whether he was some minor god or merely a king turned immortal, goddess of war. It was a lack of judgement from her part to think he wouldn't hold his own in a fight.
They grappled, both trying to grab a hold of the sword, and she elbowed him on the chest. He gasped. She jumped off him and zig-zagged in between the Cyclops's legs, and climbed onto the small stools they'd been sitting on when she came in, and jumped off of it, using the momentum of it to jump high enough to get to the chimera and cut it's head, the lion one, hoping and praying that was the main one.
It was.
The whole body twitched and spasmed when she cut the head. The sorcerer made a snarling sound and rushed at her, a dagger in his hand. Her dagger. When had she dropped it? When had he stolen it?
Try not to kill him, Hermes had said.
Groaning, Circe lunged at him and subdued him, knocking the dagger out of his hand. She pushed him down, threw him to the floor roughly and had to half straddle him when he tried to fight back with renewed strength, laying her weight on him. She levelled the sword against his slender neck, and he finally stopped his struggle. “You lost.”
The sorcerer didn't speak. He didn't even look at her.
His eyes were blown wide, lost and staring straight ahead at the ceiling, muscles sagging into relaxation underneath her with a strange passivity. His breath came in short, sharp, erratic little intakes.
“I did.” His voice had gained a strange, far away quality. Almost choked up. “What are you going to do with me now?”
Her throat felt suddenly dry. “I'm not sure I follow.”
He finally looked at her. She almost wished he didn't. His eyes were tinged with the same dull acceptance as his voice, and yet underneath shone the fear of a prey animal. “You wanted me… to turn your crew human, again, right?”
There was a pit in her stomach. “Yes.”
He nodded, sluggish, before he reached to grab the cloth that he'd been working on, separated from the warp weighted loom, digging his nails into it like a wolf's mouth around its prey.
Slowly, she removed herself from him, wincing when she realized the compromising position they were in. She wanted to sleep for years and not wake up until she had no more weariness hanging over her. His hand shot up to grab hers. “You—”
She ripped her hand away. “I— don't misunderstand me, you're. Very handsome, yes. But, back at home, a lady waits for me.”
Odysseus slowly blinked up at her, cautiously, much like an owl.
She swallowed. “Her name is Scylla. She's— the reason why I do everything.” She felt the embarrassing sensation of tears beginning to well up in her eyes. “It's been ten long years, and I miss her. And she needs me. She's cursed, you see, and I'm trying to find a way to heal her, but—”
“Cursed?” He murmured. “What sort of curse?”
She nearly said, She's been turned into a sea monster, but she thought that may be not the right thing to say to a man married to The Sea Monster. “It's a long story.”
Slowly, he gathered himself up. “I have time.”
“Poseidon,” she settled on saying. “He got angry at her and cursed her. And now he's raising tidal waves and causing storms to stop me from going home.”
Slowly, he gathered his bearings and almost cracked a smile. “Poseidon, eh? Sounds like him. I may know of a way to evade him, of a way to help you get home.”
Circe blinked. Straightened herself. Blinked again. “... You're helping me?”
He stood up, stretching, and offered her a hand. “Come on, let's go get your crew.”
And so, she found herself wandering the halls of the king's palace, passing through long galleries that doubled as textile workshops from what she could see, the floors full of folded tapestries and clothes, many half-finished pieces hanging from the warp weighted looms, wool and flax, and servants that looked at the curious duo with astonishment, as she told him all about Scylla's curse.
“I'm assuming you don't decide to make yourself helpful often,” she commented.
“Not to outsiders,” he said with a cheery tone, and then, growing more subdued, he added: “But I know what it feels like to be separated from your love, so I'm willing to lend you a hand.”
That was all fine—better than fine, truly, but a question nagged at her. “Why did you even turn my crew into pigs, to begin with?”
“They were harassing my staff,” he said stiffly, “and we've had bad experiences before. Call it a pre-emptive measure.”
“Pre-emptive. Sure. What's up with the statues?”
Odysseus made no sign of having heard her as he led her to the sty, where a bunch of pigs were oinking despondently, rolling on mud and hay. What an horrific thing it must be, she thought, to have to endure a life like this. When they saw Odysseus, they started grunting, clearly angry, but he kept his infuriating smile and extended an arm over them, gesturing broadly. “Rise and shine, little friends.”
And then there were humans where the pigs were on the floor a moment ago, looking startled and dirty, but otherwise unharmed. Circe almost started crying in relief.
Castor, an archer, was one of the first to realize what had happened and attempt to lounge at the sorcerer on unsteady feet. “You—”
Apparently unworthy of his further attention, he turned towards her. “I can't get you home, but I'll get you to the Underworld instead.”
“The Underworld?” Circe exclaimed. “Do I look like Orpheus to you?”
“I did meet him once,” he commented, contemplative. “Beautiful singing, he came with that bunch, the one in the boat.”
“The Argonauts?” She asked drily.
Odysseus snapped his fingers. “Those guys, yes! But enough about that. Your mission is going to be to go to the Underworld and get me some asphodels—they’re little gray flowers—oh, you'll know which ones they are, they're the only ones who grow there.”
“Right,” said Circe, deciding to roll with it. “Sure. Onto the Underworld.” She paused. “Why?”
“Poseidon has no power there. Besides, I'll help you brew an antidote for your lady love.”
“Why didn't you start with that?” She berated him. “You should have started with that!”
He smiled. “I'm a man of many mysteries.”
Scylla, she thought. I'm on my way.
For once, the upcoming days were filled with hope.