Back at the Start (02)

The villagers rise to your words, their fear twisting into something sharper - anger. You see it catch like a spark in dry grass, flashing from face to face. Crius. A god who does not answer. A master who cannot control his own beast.

A failure.

It is all they need.

A fisherman armed with nothing but a gutting knife runs up and drives the blade into the Cyclops' thigh. Another swings a rusted anchor at its shin, the impact ringing like a funeral bell. Nets are thrown, weighted, and tangled, tripping the monster where it stands. A woman hurls a clay pot, smashing it against the creature’s temple.

The Cyclops roars in rage, its single eye rolling wildly. It swings blindly, catching one man in its fist - a younger fisherman, barely more than a boy. With a sickening crack, the Cyclops hurls him into a stone wall. His body crumples, unmoving.

Another falls, crushed under a splintering wooden cart as the monster stomps through the chaos. A third, an old man wielding nothing but a shepherd’s crook, tries to jab at its eye - only for the beast to swat him aside like an insect.

Blood stains the dirt. Their names will be spoken for generations.

But the villagers do not stop.

"Crius forsook us!" one spits as he swings a hammer into the monster’s knee.
"He does nothing for his people!" another howls, slashing at its ankles with a jagged fishing hook.
"What kind of god lets this happen?" an old woman shrieks, hurling stones.

The Cyclops stumbles, roaring, lashing out with heavy, lumbering blows - but the fury of the people is faster.

And Kastor - Kastor is waiting.

He moves like a shadow, circling the beast as it reels, using the chaos you’ve created. You see the glint of something in his hands - his dagger - as he leaps onto the monster’s back.

It thrashes, but Kastor is already there, his arm wrapped tight around its throat, his body clinging like a second skin. He drives the dagger deep - not into its flesh, but into its single eye, the blade plunging straight through to the skull.

The Cyclops stiffens. Shudders. Then collapses like a felled tree.

Dust rises.

Silence.

The battle is over.

Kastor exhales sharply, his arms wrapping around you as you press yourself against him. His heart is pounding, but he’s alive. You’re alive. The skin-to-skin contact with him is electric - the adrenaline surge from the fight adds to the excitement. Your body thrums with want.

"I’m fine," he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. "You?"

You pull back just enough to scan him, your hands ghosting over his shoulders, his arms, checking for something worse than the bruises already forming beneath the dust and sweat. He winces when you brush against a scrape on his side, but his lips twitch into a smirk.

You barely have time to process his words before a roar rises from the villagers.

It is not fear.

It is not horror.

It is worship.

They drop to their knees, one after the other, heads bowed, hands pressed to the blood-streaked earth. Some whisper your name. Others chant it.

"Jules! Jules! Goddess of Mykonos!"

You see it in their eyes as they dare to look up—awe. The kind that no longer questions, no longer doubts. You are not simply Circe’s daughter to them. You are not a stranger who stepped into their village.

You are the answer to their prayers.

A woman clutches her chest, breathless. A man wipes tears from his weathered face. A child—no older than six—reaches a hesitant hand toward you, as if you might disappear like a dream.

They see you standing, bare before them, unashamed, covered in the dust of battle and the blood of their enemy, and they know.

The gods have walked among them.

And you - you - are one of them.

The people move quickly to carry their dead away and prepare them for burials. Some remain to care for you, bringing you their best wine and food, gifts of their finest clothing and offerings. Kastor remains vigilant, allowing you to command their attention without worry of reprisal.

How long do you remain here before you head back to the boat? What do you choose to wear? What do you suggest Kastor don for the trip?

You head back to the small boat and board it again with Kastor, waving at a couple of the children from the village who see you off. In a few moments, the tumult of the fight and the smell of blood fades away and you're back on the Aegean with Kastor. The wind plays at the fabric of his tunic, showing his lean body in the most perfect of ways. He isn't playful this time, though. He's watching the water for threats.

"You were amazing back there," he says in a clear voice. "That village is going to change its name to Jewellion. You'll be their patron." He sounds proud of that idea.

He smirks a little while staying close to you, "You'd bring me back again. You can't stand being away from me."

For a moment, there is no sound but the gentle lapping of the waves against the hull and the soft creak of the boat shifting with the tide. Kastor stills beneath your touch, his breath catching just slightly as your lips press to his.

And then, his hand finds the side of your face, rough fingertips brushing against your cheek as if to make sure you are really here, really his. His other arm winds around your back, pulling you closer, careful but firm, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

The kiss deepens, slow but consuming. You can feel the way he holds himself back, the way he wants to devour you, but keeps himself controlled, and steady. He tastes like salt and fire, like something wild barely contained, and it makes your whole body ache.

Then, he winces. You pull back just enough to see the pain flicker across his face, the hand at his side tightening into a fist.

What do you do?

Kastor huffs out a breath, his smirk flickering as pain tightens the corners of his eyes. "It’s nothing," he says, but the way his hand presses against his side tells you otherwise. You lean in, your heart climbing into your throat as you pull his arm away. His skin is slick with sweat, but what makes your stomach drop is the gash running along his ribs, angry and red. The cyclops’ strike had been too close. "Should've cauterized it."

"It looks worse than it is," he assures you, though his voice has lost some of its usual cockiness. "I’ve had worse." You insist on applying the strips to his wound. Kastor watches you for a beat, the teasing glint in his eyes softening. He exhales, his muscles relaxing under your touch.

"Thank you," he says softly. "For taking care of me. I'm... you're the only one."

Kastor shakes his head slightly, his gaze heavy-lidded but clear as he watches you. "They help," he admits, his voice quiet but firm. "But you - you're the only one who takes care of me."

His words settle in your chest, a slow, deep ache that has nothing to do with the wounds you’re tending. You tie off the last of the bandage, your fingers lingering against his skin. He gives you a tired, lopsided smile. "Don’t make that face. I’m not trying to make this a thing. Just... don’t brush it off, okay?" He exhales, tipping his head back against the wooden side of the boat. "I know you’re getting me to Circe. I know you’d do anything to fix this. But it’s you who keeps me going. Even if you don’t realize it."

You’ve seen Kastor smirk his way through pain, laugh in the face of danger, deflect with sharp words and sharper wit. But this? This quiet honesty, this vulnerability - this is different. "I tried to hate you, Jewels. To move on, find someone else. But I'm caught in your orbit. And I'm... okay with it."