Back at the Start (02)

"Oh great lady," Kastor says with a playful tone, "May I ride with you?" In a lower voice, he adds, "I can make sure you don't fall."

Kastor swings into the saddle first with the easy grace of someone who has spent his life mastering physical challenges. He extends a hand to you, his calloused palm steady and warm. "Come on," he says, his voice low but teasing. "Let’s give them something to talk about." You take his hand and let him guide you up behind him. The leather of the saddle is firm beneath you, the horse’s powerful muscles shifting with each step. Kastor’s arm reaches back to steady you as you find your balance, your fingers instinctively gripping the edges of his tunic.

The ride is slow and rhythmic, the horse’s hooves creating a soft, echoing cadence against the cobblestones. The sun warms your back, and a light breeze carries the mingled scents of olive trees, lavender, and the faint salinity of the sea far below. From this elevated path, the town of Mykonos spreads out behind you, a beautiful patchwork of whitewashed buildings and terracotta roofs nestled against the sparkling Aegean. Kastor occasionally glances back at you, his dark eyes full of that quiet, unreadable affection he rarely lets show.

The cobblestone road grows steeper, lined now with rows of cypress trees whose shadows stripe the path in dappled light. The crowd follows at a respectful distance, murmuring softly among themselves. Some scatter flower petals in your wake, a fragrant trail that marks your passage. As you approach the temple, its grandeur becomes undeniable. The columns are carved with intricate depictions of sea creatures and ancient runes, the golden accents catching the sunlight and making the entire structure seem alive with power. The steps leading to the temple are wide and flanked by statues of Circe in her many forms: a healer, an enchantress, a goddess with arms outstretched toward the sky.

At the top of the hill, waiting in the temple’s shadow, is a figure you recognize instantly. Your mother Circe herself stands there, her dark hair flowing loosely around her shoulders. She wears a flowing gown of sea green and gold, the fabric shimmering as though woven from sunlight and water. Her eyes are as sharp and knowing as ever, but her smile is warm, welcoming, and just a touch mischievous. Beside her, two attendants hold offerings - goblets of nectar and baskets of pomegranates, figs, and olives. Circe steps forward as the horse halts, her gaze fixed on you, her daughter, as if she has been waiting for this moment for an eternity.

"Welcome home, Jules," she says, her voice smooth and rich, carrying effortlessly over the space between you. "It’s been too long."

What do you do?

Circe barely has time to react before you throw your arms around her. For a moment, she’s still, as though absorbing the shock of your touch. Then her arms close around you, warm and strong, pulling you close. Her scent is a mixture of sea breeze and wildflowers, familiar yet otherworldly. "My darling girl," she murmurs, her voice trembling with joy. "You’ve finally come home."

She pulls back just enough to look at you, her hands cupping your face as though to convince herself you’re real. Her brown eyes, so much like your own, shine with unshed tears. "And you’re as radiant as I always knew you would be. My Jules, my little spark of magic."

The people gathered quickly return inside the temple or start walking down the road back to the town. Circe steps back, her happiness spilling over into gestures that ripple with divine energy. With a flick of her fingers, vines heavy with blooming jasmine wind their way up the temple columns. A gentle breeze carries the scent through the air, and the sunlight seems to grow warmer, bathing the entire hilltop in golden light. She waves her hand again, and a table appears at the temple’s edge, laden with fruits, cheeses, honeyed pastries, and amphorae of wine. The attendants rush to arrange cushions around it, their movements quick and reverent.

"I missed you," she says, her voice softer now, meant just for you. "I’ve waited so long to share this with you. To show you what we’ve built here." Her gaze flicks briefly to Kastor, who stands a respectful distance away, watching with quiet intensity. "And it seems you’ve brought Kastor again, but in better circumstances this time." She takes your hands in hers, holding them tightly. "But first, tell me - how do you like it? Does Protigi feel like the home I always hoped it would be for you?"

Your mother's smile deepens, a mixture of pride and tenderness softening her expression. She squeezes your hands gently, her thumb brushing over your knuckles as though grounding herself in the reality of your presence. "You’re kind to say so," she replies, her voice carrying the lilt of joy and nostalgia. "But no place is perfect, not even this one. The people here have their struggles, as all mortals do. Yet they’ve built lives of meaning and beauty despite it. That’s what I wanted - a world where they could thrive, free of the chaos that plagued so much of our old ways."

She looks over your shoulder at the gathered townsfolk, her gaze lingering fondly. "They’re happy to see you, Jules. To them, you’re a promise fulfilled - a connection to the divinity they hold dear. It’s why they carved your image into the square, why they speak your name in prayers even though you’ve never set foot here before today."

Her hands slide to your shoulders, and her smile takes on a knowing edge. "As for staying forever, well... Protigi is part of you now, just as you are part of it. Whenever you walk its roads or breathe its air, it will welcome you as its own. And, my sweet girl, you will always have a home here, for as long as you desire it."

She steps to your side and gestures toward the wide, open doors of the temple, the polished marble gleaming in the sunlight. "Come," she says, her voice warm and inviting. "There’s so much more to see. The temple holds stories, treasures, and truths that I’ve kept waiting for you. Let me show you where your roots begin - where our family’s legacy has taken shape."

Circe’s expression softens, a glimmer of pride lighting her features as she gently takes your hand, pulling you closer to her side. "Yes, Jules," she says, her voice warm with conviction. "They carved it. Every chisel stroke, every detail, made by their hands. The people of Mykonos were inspired by their love and devotion to you. They don’t just see you as a goddess or my daughter - they see you as their hope, their protector, and their inspiration."

Her eyes meet yours, and you see a fierce pride shining in them. "You traveled to Tartarus, Jules. To the deepest, darkest depths of torment - a place no mortal, and few gods, would dare tread. And you didn’t just survive. You escaped."

Her voice rises with each word, her passion filling the space between you. "You faced Zeus himself and pleaded the case of the Titans. Titans, Jules! Beings who were damned to eternal torment. You stood before the King of the Olympians and convinced him to see their suffering, to end it. And when the Olympians and Titans were at the brink of war, you created the Great Summit. It was your words, your wisdom, that brought peace to two factions who had known nothing but hatred for eons."

She gestures around, the golden light of the temple spilling onto the marble floors. "And this, this world - Protigi - none of it would exist without you. It was you who helped me build the first Protigi, a sanctuary, a seed of a dream. And that seed grew into all of this." Circe sweeps her hand outward, encompassing the hills, the town, and the shining sea beyond. "You’ve done what few could ever hope to do. You’ve changed not just tides, but entire worlds, Jules. And not just with power, but with your heart and your mind."

She places a hand on your cheek, her touch gentle but grounding. "So yes, they carved that statue of you. Because they see the truth of you, even when you hesitate to see it yourself. They love you, Jules, as I do. And they honor you for all that you’ve done - for who you are." Her hand drops, and her lips quirk into a soft smile. "And I hope, someday, you’ll come to see yourself through their eyes. Through mine."

Circe notices the glimmer of emotion in your eyes and places a steadying hand on your shoulder, grounding you in her warmth. She turns her gaze to Kastor, her smile gracious yet calculating as if she’s measuring the son of Athena with her sharp, discerning eyes. "Kastor," she says, her voice melodious and inviting, "you are a part of this story as well. Any friend of Jules, especially one brave enough to travel here with her, is welcome in my temple. Come inside, both of you, and see what has been waiting for her." She gestures toward the temple doors, which swing open of their own accord, revealing the grandeur within.

As you step into the temple, the air changes - cooler, laced with a faint scent of lavender and rosemary. The golden sunlight spills through high windows, casting intricate patterns on the polished marble floor. The temple walls are adorned with mosaics depicting moments of your mother's life: her mother Hecate, discovering Aeaeae, mating with Odysseus, and the creation of Protigi with Prometheus and a smaller shadow. You also see mosaics of you life: your journey to Tartarus, your triumphant return, the Great Summit, and the founding of Protigi. Every image shimmers faintly, as if imbued with magic, the stories coming alive with every step you take.

At the center of the temple stands a massive statue of Circe, her arms raised as if she’s casting a spell. But to your surprise, a smaller statue of you stands beside her, holding a torch aloft - a symbol of guidance and illumination. It’s a gesture that feels both humbling and empowering.

Circe watches you carefully, her expression soft as she gestures for you to follow her deeper into the temple. "Come, there’s more I want you to see," she says. She leads you down a corridor lined with enchanted sconces, their flames flickering in hues of green and gold, to a chamber filled with an almost electric hum of energy - her workshop.

The room is a kaleidoscope of creativity. Potions bubble in glass vessels suspended midair. Shelves are crammed with ancient scrolls, shimmering vials, and jars filled with herbs, gemstones, and substances you can’t even begin to name. A long table sits at the center, strewn with tools, half-finished artifacts, and a glowing map of Protigi that shifts and moves as though alive. In one corner of the room is a mural of you - a younger you - helping Circe weave golden threads into the fabric of the first Protigi. The expression on your painted face is one of joy and determination, as though you were born for this work.

Circe turns to you and Kastor, spreading her arms. "This is where I build, where I dream, where I make worlds," she says. "And you, Jules, have always been part of this magic. You’ve been my inspiration and my co-creator in ways you don’t even realize."

She gives Kastor a pointed look. "And you, son of Athena, may find this place more useful than you think. Wisdom and strategy are not so far from magic, after all." Her tone shifts, light and inviting again. "But enough talk. Explore, both of you. Touch, see, and feel. This place is as much yours as it is mine."

You scan the shelves of your mother’s workshop, running your fingers over the spines of ancient tomes and jars labeled in flowing Greek script. The room buzzes faintly with magic, and every object seems to hum as you pass, like they’re vying for your attention. Finally, your eyes settle on a small, intricately carved box tucked between a book titled Chronomancy for the Studious and a jar of glittering, star-like powder.

Curious, you pull the box free and lift the lid. Inside is a delicate quill made of shimmering silver feathers, its tip already inked with something that glows faintly blue. Beside it, on a slip of parchment, is an inscription written in your mother’s elegant hand:

The Scholar’s Quill: Write your troubles, and it writes the answers.

You carefully pick up the quill. It’s light as air, but the moment you hold it, a soothing warmth spreads through your fingers. Your mind instantly floods with ideas of how this might work—organizing essays, solving equations, even drafting outlines for group projects.

Circe notices the quill in your hand and approaches with a smile. "That little treasure can transcribe your thoughts faster than you can speak them. It can even provide suggestions when you’re stuck, as long as your intent is clear." When she sees your reaction, she chuckles softly. "It’s a tool, my darling, not a shortcut. It enhances what’s already in you. But..." she gives you a knowing look, "it won’t do your work for you. You’ll need to focus and guide it. The magic only mirrors the effort you’re willing to put in."

Holding the quill feels almost like holding a piece of your own potential, condensed and ready to spring to life. You imagine it gliding effortlessly across your textbooks, turning your late-night cramming sessions into works of art.

Circe tilts her head thoughtfully, her eyes sparkling with that familiar blend of amusement and wisdom. "The quill doesn’t create better art, my dear," she explains, gently taking the feather from your hand and holding it up to the light. "It channels your intent more purely. If you draw with it, it will render your vision with incredible clarity - but that vision must come from you. It amplifies what’s already in your mind and heart. The creativity, the passion, the emotion? That’s all yours."

She moves closer and puts her hand on your lower back as she continues, "Think of it as a mirror for your imagination. If your heart is conflicted, the art will reflect that. If it’s full of joy, the lines will sing. The quill cannot create what you do not already possess."

Kastor leans against a worktable, arms crossed over his chest, his brows furrowed in thought. He doesn’t speak at first, his eyes fixed on the quill in your hand as though it’s a puzzle he’s trying to solve. Finally, he shifts and says, "So... it’s like drawing without the struggle of your hand not matching your head?" His tone is skeptical, but there’s a flicker of interest in his eyes.

Circe nods. "Precisely. It’s a tool, not a replacement for talent or vision. It will show you what you’re truly capable of when nothing gets in the way."