Back at the Start (02)

Kastor chuckles, shaking his head as he tosses his pencil onto the sketchpad. "You’re impossible, you know that?" His tone is light, but there’s a spark in his eyes that wasn’t there before, like he’s intrigued by the challenge you’ve just thrown at him.

He leans back on the bench, "So, I can either sit here, in the regular old park, and chat while I sketch you… or I can step into some magical world that’s basically your personal playground, complete with Titans, gods, and who knows what else? And I’m supposed to say no to that?"

He stands up, offering you his hand, "If the world I want doesn’t exist yet, maybe Protigi’s a good place to start figuring out how to make it real. Let's go."

I laugh at his assessment of my offer, taking his hand to stand with him. "I guess I don't know if it's really my personal playground just yet. ...I've never been before either. But I know how to get us there."

I glance down at myself and frown a bit. "I wish I were a little better dressed for the occasion, but fortune favors the bold I guess." I reach up and take his other hand in mine, looking at him with eyes ready for adventure. "Ready?"

"We could... both take off our tops," Kastor suggests with a smirk. He mimes reaching for the hem of his shirt. "But yes, I'm ready."

My heart flares when Kastor suggests we take off our tops and I laugh to cover showing just how much it thrills me.

I reach out and take his hands in mine, looking around the park to make sure we're alone before I meet his gaze. "Then let's go."

The spell begins with the words on your lips, quiet but potent, like a spark catching dry kindling. As you clutch Kastor’s hand, the air around you hums with energy, thick and heavy, like a storm about to break. Your magic pulls at the edges of the mundane world, prying it open. The space before you warps, trembling like the surface of a pond after a stone is tossed in, and then splits apart.

The portal forms slowly, like ink spilling in water, until its edges stabilize into a rippling oval of light. The boundary shimmers with colors that shouldn't exist - shades that pulse and swirl like molten gold and liquid night. Faint whispers emanate from it, a choir of voices speaking in tongues you don’t recognize, yet feel deep in your bones. It smells faintly of sea salt, wildflowers, and the metallic tang of power.

Through the portal, you see it - Protigi: a sweeping coastline of pale sand and turquoise waves breaking gently on the shore. Beyond the beach rises a city perched on a hillside, its white-stone buildings glowing warmly under the late afternoon sun. The roofs are terracotta, vibrant against the lush greenery spilling from the surrounding hills. At the highest point of the city stands a massive temple to your mother, its columns hewn from glistening stone that glows faintly with an inner light. Statues of Titans loom around it, carved with exquisite detail, their faces both noble and foreboding.

The breeze coming through the portal carries the mingling scents of olive groves, fresh bread baking, and a trace of incense. Somewhere in the distance, faint music - lyres and flutes - floats on the air, mingling with the rhythmic calls of seabirds. Kastor’s hand tightens on yours, anchoring you to the moment. "It’s beautiful," he says, his voice low and reverent. He leans closer, gazing into the portal, his expression torn between awe and curiosity. "So, this is Protigi."

My first glimpse of Protigi takes my breath away. It's so much more beautiful than I imagined, so much more detailed, so much more real. I scan the expanse, excitement and peace washing over me in turns, a sensation that raises the hair on my arms.

Kastor's words make me blink, realizing that this place isn't just something to look at, it's something waiting for us to enter and explore.

"Come on," I answer, my words softened by my wonder and I step forward, leading him into a land my mother built, to a place I've never been but somehow feel like I know deep in my marrow. And it feels like it knows me too.

With a breath, you step forward, leading him through the shimmering portal.

The sun seems brighter here, its warmth golden and alive, almost tangible as it filters through the portal and kisses Kastor’s skin. He pulls his shirt off in one fluid motion, the muscles of his back rippling like waves under his skin. When he turns toward you, the light catches on the faint sheen of sweat from the afternoon heat, highlighting every contour - his defined shoulders, the ridges of his abs, the strong lines of his arms. He’s like a statue carved by a master sculptor, given life and an easy, roguish confidence that makes him utterly captivating.

You catch him smirking, that glint of self-awareness in his eyes as he tosses the shirt carelessly back through the portal to the ground at the park. "Don’t tell me the great and mighty daughter of Circe is distracted," he teases, but his voice is warm, inviting.

The air of Protigi hits you like a welcome embrace - warm and fragrant, alive with the hum of distant activity. As your feet touch the cobblestone streets, the world seems to react. The breeze shifts, carrying with it the scent of blooming jasmine and ripe citrus. The sound of conversation and laughter quiets as heads turn toward you.

The common folk, mortals crafted by Prometheus and your mother, pause in their work. A fisherman hauling in his net freezes mid-motion. A woman selling honey at her stall places a jar down carefully, her eyes widening. A child with olive-toned skin and curly hair tugs at his mother’s sleeve, pointing at you with awe.

They recognize you. Not just for your mortal features, but for the divinity that seeps through, an unmistakable mark left by your lineage. It’s in the way the light seems to linger around you, in the subtle way the earth beneath your feet feels solid yet yielding, like it knows exactly who you are.

Whispers ripple through the crowd, words you can barely make out: "Daughter of Circe…descendant of Hecate…she’s come."

A man dressed in a tunic and sandals drops to one knee, bowing his head. Others follow suit, some offering murmured blessings, others lowering their gaze in reverence. The honey-seller moves quickly to her cart, lifting a jar of the finest golden honey and setting it carefully at your feet.

Kastor glances at you, his expression unreadable but his body language at ease, as though he’s used to attention but is letting you have this moment. "They love you," he murmurs, his voice low and amused. "Or fear you. Maybe both."

The woman with the honey dares to speak, her voice trembling but hopeful. "Welcome, my lady. May your visit bring us your favor."

You feel the weight of their gazes, their awe, and their hope. It’s a lot to bear, but it’s also familiar, like a mantle you were born to wear. Kastor steps closer to you, his hand brushing against yours for a moment, grounding you in the here and now.

"Well," he says softly, "lead the way, Jewels. They’re waiting for their titaness to make her next move."

Seeing Kastor shirtless in the sunlight is almost like traveling to another world in and of itself - a world occupied by one really hot guy. I blush a little at his teasing. "Not distracted, just appreciative," I answer before we really see the new world of Protigi.

I spend a moment just taking it all in. Everything feels so...perfect. Simple without lacking complexity. Warm but with a lovely breeze. Exciting without being overwhelming. And when the people notice us - notice me - the world is suddenly like home too. Like I belong here.

I take in the man kneeling to me, then the others too, surprised and also...feeling like this makes sense somehow, like it's right. Kastor certainly doesn't seem thrown off and I can't help but wonder if he ever had this kind of response when he was Nestor. He tells me they love me, or fear me, and I scan the people again, wondering if he's right. It certainly feels like some kind of adoration, or respect.

At Kastor's prompting, I take a moment trying to make sure I do the right thing here, before I bend down to pick up the jar of honey, holding it up to the light so it glows almost like gold. "Beautiful," I muse softly, but loud enough so that the woman and those close by will hear my approval. I lower the jar, holding it close like a treasure and look over the small crowd, addressing them all. "Thank you for this warm welcome," I tell them. I glance at Kastor, partially wondering if I should be using more flowery words for this, but hesitance isn't exactly the picture of a leader, so I continue, "I wonder if any of you might be able to direct me to where I can find some new clothes?"

The honey-woman weeps with happiness at your kind words. When you ask about clothing, the citizens of Mykonos exchange quick glances, their awe-stricken expressions shifting to one of shared understanding. A tall man with silver-threaded hair, who seems to be a fisherman by the net still slung over his shoulder, steps forward hesitantly. He bows his head low before speaking, his voice reverent but steady.

"My lady, if it pleases you, the finest garments in Mykonos can be found at the Temple of Circe," he says, gesturing toward the hill that rises above the small city. Perched there, glowing softly in the afternoon sun, is a structure of white marble and gold filigree. Vines of ivy cascade down its walls, and you can make out the intricate carvings of waves, flowers, and creatures of the sea adorning its pillars.

"The priestesses there would be honored to provide you with attire befitting your lineage," he continues. "Everything there is woven and blessed in your mother’s name."

A younger woman, her arms laden with a basket of ripe figs, steps forward and adds quickly, "But if you’d prefer something simpler, my lady, the weaver’s market in the square has many fine tunics and dresses." She seems eager to be helpful, her cheeks flushing as she meets your gaze.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Kastor smirking, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. "Seems you have options," he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear.

The crowd waits for your decision, their anticipation palpable. The man bows again, and the woman clutches her basket tightly, their eyes fixed on you, ready to serve. Even the child tugging at his mother’s hand looks up with wide, hopeful eyes, as if your choice will shape the very mood of the day. You feel the weight of their devotion, the quiet power of their willingness to help.

What do you do?

Temple of Circe. I follow the man's gesture to the structure that bears my mother's name. Even from here, it looks radiant. I can only imagine how striking it is close up, and how lovely the clothes there must be. The younger woman's offer brings my gaze back to the people around me and Kastor seems to be enjoying this almost more than I am.

"Thank you," I answer, giving both the man and woman a look of intention, so they know I see them. As much as I want the luxury that I imagine waits at the temple, I can't imagine approaching the temple in Emmy's cat sweatshirt. "I would love to visit the weaver's market to see more of your lovely home before I go to my mother."

Of course, for all I know, Mom's going to come find me before I get to her. I'm sure she can sense that I'm here.

Kastor, standing just behind you, leans in with a low chuckle. "Looks like you’ve got a fan club here, Jules. You’re a walking legend." You glance back at him, but the tug of his smirk is softened by the admiration in his eyes.

It's not until I see the statue of myself that I really understand what I might mean to the people here. To them, it must seem like I've walked right out of the pages of a fairytale...or scripture...to stand among them. It makes me check my posture as I walk through the streets. I don't want to disappoint them, and I don't even know them.

I take my time as the weavers offer up options, worried that dismissing any of them too quickly would hurt them. I touch fabrics, coo over colors, and trace embroidery with my fingertips, and in between it all, I keep catch Kastor's gaze, feeling nothing but warmth from him, like maybe he, too, is seeing me a bit more like the people here do. Or maybe he's just seeing me as he always has, but I'm only just living in that perception myself.

Finally, my hands resting on the golden embroidering along the hems of the dress, I look to the person holding it, offering them a small smile that I try to fill with all the warmth that I can. "This will do nicely," I say with a slight nod. "Is there a place I can dress?"

The air in the market hums with expectation as you move through the stalls, each step drawing hopeful eyes and whispered encouragements from the weavers. Your fingers graze soft fabrics, the textures as varied as the colors - light linens cool to the touch, heavy wools rich with intricate embroidery, and silks that feel like water slipping through your hands. Every time you pause, the weaver at that stall stiffens with anticipation, their gaze flicking between you and their work as though silently pleading for your favor.

Finally, you stop at a stall displaying a dress that catches your eye - a deep crimson garment embroidered with delicate golden laurel leaves around the hem and neckline. Beside it is a tunic of seafoam green, with an airy elegance that reminds you of the ocean spray. You lift both pieces, running your thumb along the hem of the gown before glancing back at the weaver, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a braid streaked with silver.

When you ask for a place to change, the woman at the stall beams, her expression lighting up as though the sun itself has risen at her stall. She gestures to the back of her stall, where a modest wooden screen stands, draped with a sheer linen cloth. "Of course, Tide-Changer," she says, her voice trembling slightly with the honor of your selection. "There is a dressing area just behind here. Please, take your time. If you need anything, I will be close by."

She steps aside, pulling the screen further open to reveal a small, shaded space with a cushioned stool and a polished bronze mirror propped on a low table. A basin of water and a folded cloth rest nearby, offering a chance to freshen up. As you step behind the screen, you catch a glimpse of the weaver turning to the crowd that has gathered near her stall. She lifts her hands, her voice rising with pride as she tells them, "The Lady Jules has chosen from my works! A blessing upon this day!"

Inside the dressing area, the fabric feels cool and comforting against your skin as you change. The gown fits perfectly as if the weaver had crafted it with you in mind long before your arrival.

The dress feels like a second skin, its fabric whispering against your movements as you step out from behind the screen. The embroidery glimmers faintly in the sun, as though catching and holding fragments of light just for you. You adjust your bun with a quick, practiced twist, the cool breeze teasing the nape of your neck. When you emerge from the dressing area, the murmurs of the gathered crowd swell into a gentle wave of awe and approval. Kastor straightens, his gaze sweeping over you with a quiet appreciation he doesn’t bother to hide. He's put a toga on, but he's still wearing his jeans and boots. "Whoah... Jewels. You look... wow."

Adara, having discarded her basket of figs, steps forward with a warm smile and beckons you to follow her. "This way, my lady," she says, her tone reverent but steady, as though determined to serve you well.

As you walk, the cobblestone road unfurls before you like a path from a dream, lined on either side by townspeople who have come out to see you. Men, women, and children alike stand in quiet wonder, their eyes wide and shining. Some bow their heads; others press their hands over their hearts. A few of the younger ones whisper excitedly, barely containing their glee.

You catch snippets of their reverence: "The daughter of Circe…" "She walks among us…" "A living titaness…"

The road bends slightly as it ascends, offering a glimpse of the temple in the distance, its columns gleaming ivory and gold against the azure sky. The scent of olive oil and fresh herbs wafts on the breeze, mingling with the floral notes of wildflowers that cling to the hillside.

Ahead, the rhythmic clatter of hooves echoes off the stones, and the crowd parts to reveal a rider approaching - a man astride a sleek black horse, its coat gleaming as if polished. The rider is broad-shouldered and draped in a finely woven tunic and leather armor embossed with symbols of protection. His short beard is neat, his expression stoic but respectful as he dismounts. He strides forward, leading the horse by the reins until he stands before you. Bowing low, he says, "Lady Jules, it would honor me greatly if you would take my steed for the journey to your mother’s temple."

The horse snorts softly, pawing at the ground as if sensing the significance of the moment. The man lifts the reins toward you, his posture unwavering. "The way is steep, and your presence here is a blessing to us all. Please allow me to make your journey easier." Behind him, the crowd leans in, holding their collective breath as they await your response.

What do you do?