✺ THE ESSENCE OF MAGIC ✺
"You have to admit, it's clever."
Hades nearly jumps in surprise as he swivels towards Zeus, his flailing arm very narrowly avoiding Hestia's face. The god of the skies had spoken begrudgingly, rolling his master bolt on his chair's armrest back and forth with his finger. Poseidon looks at Zeus with incredulity, almost betrayed, as Demeter lifts her eyes with interest.
"Allies?" Clarisse asks, extending her hand towards (Y/N).
The daughter of Persephone smiles, taking it. "Allies."
Zeus sighs, glancing between his siblings. "What? She's playing the game psychologically—breaking them down from the inside. Can I not acknowledge the intelligence that an individual has?"
"No," Poseidon responds instantly. Hades flicks a matchbox-sized fireball in his direction.
Hestia groans. "I thought we'd moved past this," she says, her hair mussed from the amount of times she'd pulled at it in annoyance.
Hades grins at his sister. "You know us," he says, walking over to drape his arm around her shoulder. He shakes her playfully before ruffling her hair further. "And you were asking for far more than is possible."
Hestia lightly shoves the god away from her. "I'll hold out hope, thank you very much."
The room falls into a hesitant silence at the words, reminded of the prophecy. Hades glances around for his wife, who sits in the corner of the room with Hecate.
The sorceress hovers cross-legged in the air while she flips through one of her spellbooks, the worn leather of its giant spine cracking slightly from eternal use. Hecate's lips move silently as she reads, her brow cinched as she quickly turns pages with a practiced, careful touch. At her side (and on floor-level), Persephone's skirts flare over her pouf as she meditates, the metallic accents on her green dress twinkling with the occasional glimmers of Hecate's magic. The queen's face is relaxed, yet her eyes move quickly behind closed lids, her lips just slightly pursed as her folded hands twitch every so often.
Hades easily notices her signs of stress, but his foot halts in its motion as he tries to step towards her. His entire leg seems to lock up, caught in midair by some invisible force. He looks over to Hecate in question, who merely shakes her head.
The power releases, and Hades casts one more concerned look to his queen before turning again to face the vision.
Demeter glances at him as he sits, and she leans over to whisper. "Look at the way they're fuming." She inconspicuously jerks her head in Zeus and Poseidon's direction, and Hades glances to them with a raised eyebrow.
Zeus leans back in his seat, his master bolt rolling between his hands, while he stares at the magical image with slightly narrowed eyes. His eyebrow twitches occasionally, his knee bobbing repeatedly—with anticipation or restraint, Hades cannot fully tell.
Poseidon, however, clutches his armrests with such force that his knuckles lose most of their color. His jaw, clenched for what has to be the eighth consecutive hour, ticks rhythmically as his eyes swirl a clouded, stormy blue. Had the teenagers not been outside of Poseidon's domain, Hades would by no means trust his brother to keep his composure.
The minutes pass, the air tense and sparked with irritation. Hecate glances at the gods from her corner, her eyes warily scanning the room.
"(Y/N) (Y/L/N) isn't perfect after all," Percy says, laughing. He leans against the dock rail, moonlight washing over his figure as waves lap gently against the ship. "I must admit, I'm disappointed."
She rolls her eyes, a tiny smile tugging at her lips. "You're a jerk."
He furrows his eyebrows, tilting his head. "I thought I was an idiot."
"You still are; you're just a jerk, too."
Percy lets out an exaggerated gasp, bringing a hand to his heart. Upon contact, he closes his eyes as though fighting back tears, and (Y/N) laughs.
Hestia glances at Persephone before looking at Hades. "They're cute," she mutters, feeling Poseidon's glare.
Hades merely hums in acknowledgement, conflicted over his feelings.
When it begins to rain, Poseidon looks to Zeus. "Seriously?"
The god of the skies holds his hands up in defense. "I don't control every time it rains!"
"Well, you can stop it," Poseidon says, gesturing at the image as Percy offers his hand to (Y/N) for a dance. "She's a backstabber and you're letting them have a romantic moment."
"If nature needs the rain, then I'm not going to interfere," Zeus says. Poseidon scoffs as his brother continues: "Besides, I want your money."
Hera shakes her head at their conversation. "You men are ridiculous," she mumbles.
"Why are you betting on this, in the first place?" Hades asks, leaning forward slightly.
Zeus merely shrugs.
"Awww," Demeter coos as Percy creates an umbrella of water above their heads, looking down at (Y/N) fondly.
Persephone opens an eye from her corner, and she smiles gently at the scene before returning to her meditations.
Zeus smirks at Poseidon in victory, who flips him the bird.
As (Y/N) looks at Percy with a question in her eyes, the boy shrugs. "Well, I wanted to dance with you and hopefully kiss you in the rain, but I also don't want you getting sick." (Y/N) chuckles while wrapping her arms around his neck, nodding in consent.
Zeus leans forward in his chair, knee bobbing with anticipation.
Hestia smacks his shoulder. "Give them some privacy," she scolds, and her brother glances away with a hint of shame.
When Percy pulls back slightly, he holds (Y/N) tighter. "Be my girlfriend," he breathes, stroking her cheek.
She gazes at him with pure adoration before answering. "Okay," she whispers, her smile growing.
"Yes!" Zeus cheers, leaping from his seat and throwing his hands in the air. "I told you!" He points at Poseidon, clapping and giggling like a giddy child.
Hades chuckles at their antics while the goddesses scoff at their immaturity. Poseidon crosses his arms.
"Shut up," he grumbles, glaring at Zeus as he dances around his chair.
"I told you, I told you, I told you!" he sings, throwing his head back to the sky. "Woo-hoo!"
Demeter looks at the king of the Olympians with concern, her gaze shifting to Hera. 'Really? Him?' she mouths, and the queen just shakes her head before rubbing her temples.
"O-ho-ho, this is an incredible day," Zeus pants, ruffling Poseidon's messy hair. He crouches slightly, staring intently at the god's temple. "I can- I can see the gears just, like, on fire. Oh, wow, you hate her so much! But he doesn't! Your son is infatuated by someone you despise! Ha-ha!"
"Do you ever shut up?" Poseidon snaps.
Zeus chuckles. "Only on certain occasions." He skips to the front of Poseidon's chair, holding his hands out and making grabby motions with a smug grin.
"Money, please."
— x —
Torches flicker along the walls of the meeting chamber, casting warmth across the stone. Beacons of orange flame spot in measured intervals, brightening the main space before being swallowed by the lone area of shadow in the room.
In what select gods have dubbed 'Houdini's Corner' (intentionally darkened to enhance the goddess' power), Hecate sets another ledger atop her pile of useless spellbooks. Without pause, she picks up the next from her dwindling selection of possibles. Transfigurations, curses, hypnosis—none of these practices are what she needs.
Despite her careful touch on the old papyrus, the sorceress moves through pages with impressive speed. Her gleaming eyes skim over runes and illustrations, titles and footnotes, meticulously and frantically searching for the spell she desires.
She pauses.
A single plant is described using the entire space of the two pages open to the goddess, capturing her interest.
Displayed in neat, tiny rows are the extensive background and detailed uses of a particular pharmaka, more commonly known among her kind as moly. Black-rooted with milky white petals, this powerful herb sown by the fallen blood of gods could be manipulated by and imbued with magic to work desired changes upon the world. Great, powerful, glorious, terrible changes.
The infamous Circe, daughter of Helios, discovered her powers of witchcraft through moly. She had dropped the sap onto her lover's mortal lips, transforming him into a handsome sea-god so she could stay by his side for eternity. Instead, he had taken favor to a different nymph in Helios' halls, forever lost to his admirer. Vengeful, Circe had contaminated the nymph's bathing pool with moly, unaware of the power's true strength. At Circe's bidding, the beautiful and desired Scylla became the six-headed, tentacled monster who now feeds on sailors that traverse her strait—six at a time, one for each mouth.
Too slow in passing, and a crew loses twelve.
Hecate lightly traces the drawn petals with her fingertip, black ink lighting green under her touch. She glances along the page, reinforcing the textbook details with her experienced understanding. She dares to relax the slightest amount upon reading the entire entry, possibilities and hope racing through her mind.
This was power rarely used by request of her kind, extensive and uncontested. Moly had long been feared by the gods due to the abuses of pharmakeia. Witchcraft.
Hecate, although goddess of the magical arts, knew better than to keep pharmaka in her general arsenal of sorcery. Nymphs such as Circe and her siblings caused enough havoc with their powers—creating monsters, turning men into pigs, raising the dead, leading kingdoms with dragons and metal bulls and poisons.
If Hecate's abilities, of all others, were to be a product of moly, she would have the potential to rule, control, and destroy the world.
The glorious were afraid, and for good reason.
But while most only cite the abuses of moly, the sorcerors' legends claim it to contain the power of apotrope. The bulwark and ward against evil and ruin.
Hecate understands that morality could never be split into the black-and-white ideas of good and evil. With the unidentifiable journey of the universe, such distinctions are impossible.
There is only an event and its echo. Every action and word and thought resides in the ever-present greys.
And yet it had been foretold that Evil would prevail.
Hecate rereads the pages, committing them to memory. As she finishes flipping through the spellbook, a single thought tugs at her mind.
She was already a sorceress.
She needed to become a witch.
— x —
Aiaia had long been an exiled land, although crises occasionally broke such a sentence, bringing visitors and removing inhabitants. The island was a home of diverse forests, crystalline bathing pools, and numerous wild creatures. For centuries among them, there had been a single rebellious nymph.
"Now, tell me, what brings the Queen of Witches to my island?"
Hecate tilts her head with intrigue. Rising from her slight bow, Circe's yellow eyes glint deviously as she tags on, "Your Majesty."
Hecate's magic washes over the nymph, whose sunlit eyes break the shadow created by the goddess's power. "I do not consider myself a witch," Hecate says, earning a raised eyebrow, "and I do not consider myself your queen. You have a record of distaste towards your superiors, if I am not mistaken."
Circe chuckles, glancing at the sun—her father—for a moment. "You are not."
"Then, to answer your question, I am approaching you as a student."
Betraying her confusion, Circe blinks. "How could I possibly help you?" she asks, turning and gesturing for Hecate to walk alongside her.
The goddess' skirts brush quietly against the grasses, her gentle footsteps falling in tandem with Circe's practiced strides. "Aiaia," Hecate begins, examining the nature which surrounds her, "as I am told, is a home of pharmaka."
Circe halts. "What need do you have of it?" she asks, facing the goddess warily. Her jaw tightens, hands stiff in order to mask the sudden tremble in her fingertips. Hecate notices these signs—of anticipation, of fear, of protection—and forces her own shadowy trails of magic to recede slightly. Circe's eyes glow brighter in response, her power felt stronger as it emanates from her.
"I understand that you may see me as a threat," Hecate says. "I understand that you likely will not want to divulge the secrets of your magic to me. That, even now, I am a danger to you and your craft."
Circe scoffs lightly, pulling her shoulders back. "I do not fear you," she states, shaking her head. "What I fear are the terrors that moly can unleash."
Hecate nods knowledgeably. "Scylla," she says, the single word striking visible regret and sorrow into the witch.
Circe takes a breath, visibly struggling to remain respectful. "Although you may claim otherwise, my lady, you fail to properly understand. I am the reason for each of her kills. Pharmakeia is the reason that such creatures as the Minotaur live. The drunken appeals of witchcraft are why my niece killed her sons. My siblings have grown cruel and greedy because of their abilities. You have no place to tell me where I stand in the word of magic. There is so much more than you know about the evils of pharmaka. Do not assume that you see my power, or my fear."
Hecate glances past the nymph with intrigue, her gaze seeking out the lavish cottage that resides in the distance. "Scylla, Pasiphaë, Medea—you claim the dangers of witchcraft, yet exploit them on the men who visit your island. Your pigs may be quiet, but I know they're here."
Circe chuckles, the sound bitter. "I know my strength. I know how to restrain it. I only use such power on those who are deserving of its harms."
The sorceress gives the witch a saddened smile. "They violated you," she says, the words gentle and apologetic. "They took away your safety and control while no one came to your aid."
Circe's jaw clenches as she looks at Hecate, her eyes slightly glossy.
"I know your fear," Hecate continues, "and I know your anger. But I also know you had no choice. You would do otherwise if you could. I know, Circe. And it is because I know this that I tell you—I would not be here unless I, myself, had another choice."
Hecate's words bring slight relaxation to Circe's tense muscles. The goddess didn't come here to threaten or exploit, she realizes. But after everything Circe has experienced and learned, she cannot willingly assist in enhancing Hecate's magic to such an extent. Not without certainty of its purpose.
"You need my assistance, yet I have to ask why," Circe says, glancing at the visible tendrils of magic that reach towards her. "When you have such unrestricted power, why do you need to extend it? When you have yourself, why do you need me? Pharmaka, in your hands, can bring about destruction beyond anything I alone can fathom. So I implore you, tell me: What use can moly possibly serve you?"
Hecate sighs, thinking carefully over her words. Eventually, she settles for being as straightforward as possible. "Kronos is soon to be resurrected."
Too surprised to tame her response, Circe stumbles back. The light in her eyes seems to flicker with fear, and her arms find their way around herself as a means of protection. Her breaths quiver as her brow furrows. "How do you know this?" she whispers, glancing repeatedly to the sky.
Hecate takes a step forward, extending her arm with concern. Circe shakes her head, her arms dropping to her sides as she chuckles with disbelief. "No," she starts, and Hecate's expression grows sympathetic. "No, that cannot be."
"It is."
"My father has the gift of prophecy; he would have prepared a response if Kronos was to return."
Hecate tilts her head apologetically. "He exiled you, abandoned you, and you still hope he has changed."
Circe looks down to the grass, taking a deep breath.
"Circe," Hecate starts, stepping closer, "Helios cares naught for anyone but himself and his pride. He will take Kronos' side if it means that he retains his throne. You know this."
Hesitantly, Circe casts another glance to the sun. As she does so, a shield of darkness forms over her head, casting both her and Hecate into shadow. Circe looks to the goddess in front of her, finding her green eyes swirling with passion and desperation.
"Your father will not help. But you can. Kronos is going to return. Those who must fight him cannot succeed without my power. It is my burden to pull the abilities of the gods into a living vessel. I believe that moly holds the key to such a spell."
"Why don't the gods face Kronos themselves?"
"They took an oath."
"Then break it."
"They're stubborn."
"They're ridiculous," Circe corrects, earning a nod of helpless agreement. Seemingly reluctant, Circe purses her lips, closing her eyes and exhaling. Her lips move silently, forehead scrunching in what appears to be an effort to reprimand herself. Hecate's expectant gaze persists until eventually Circe nods. "It is not a spell you need," she starts, opening her eyes, "but a ritual."
Hecate's brow cinches with interest.
Circe plucks a fallen strand of hair off of her shoulder, the glow from her eyes lighting it enough for Hecate to see in the shadow. "Spells are about command," she explains, placing the hair in her palm and rolling it between both hands. "To transform something, to cast and create—you are taking what exists and making something new. The world follows your order to grant what is desired." Circe's mumbles into her clasped palms, Hecate barely catching the words. The nymph opens her hands, watching as her ladybug skitters over her fingers before flying away.
Circe drops her hands, wiping them carefully on her trousers. "Rituals, on the other hand, are about using what exists and obeying its wishes. You may summon a being or integrate an ability, but you do not order anything to do your bidding. You must appeal to the subject, whether it is living or intangible, and guide it. In a sense, you are its vessel, and you must give what it needs to ultimately serve your intentions."
"I see," Hecate says.
"Not everything." Circe gestures for the goddess to join her, leading their path into her forest. When the trees provide shelter from the prying eyes of Helios, Hecate lets her veil of shadows dissipate. "Understand," Circe starts, her feet avoiding roots and shrubs by habit, "that I cannot tell you how to practice your witchcraft. It is yours, and yours alone. What works for me will not yield the same results for you."
"You must know that I do not have time for countless practice and errors."
"Then you should have come sooner," Circe states matter-of-factly, running her fingertips along a tree trunk as she shifts their course leftward. "I understand that your situation is dire but you, of all of us, should also know that magic cannot be rushed."
Hecate flexes her fingers by her sides. "Then what do you propose I do?" she asks, ducking under a low-lying tree branch.
"Turn back time, perhaps."
Hecate has to take a breath in order to exercise her restraint.
Circe nods ahead of her. "The moly grows over there. It likes the shade and the moss."
"I thought it liked where godly blood fell thickest."
"That, too."
A few paces later, and Circe stops, kneeling before a cluster of white flowers. Hecate inhales sharply in surprise at the power that emanates from them, almost calling for her to exploit their magic. The nymph looks up at her, a knowing look in her eyes.
"You feel their power?"
"I do. I've never felt one so strong."
Circe chuckles softly at the goddess's shock. "Neither had I. Everything has magic, but these . . . these are magic."
Hecate watches as Circe delicately moves the soil away from one of the flowers, poking and digging with her fingertips before pulling the roots out and away with care. She dusts away some of the remaining dirt, revealing the dark black of the flower's roots. After patting the soil back into place, Circe stands, holding the flower out to show Hecate.
"The power is in the sap," she explains, running her finger along the stem. "To maximize the amount, you'll want to cut here, at the base of the flower's pedicel." She taps the green bulb that connects to the stem under the petals. "Harvesting these properly is essential to the magic. Keep the largest and strongest roots intact, and the sap remains useful to you. Otherwise, the moly dies and its effectiveness leaves within the minute."
Hecate hums in acknowledgement, carefully taking the flower and savoring the humming rush that passes through her fingertips. She mutters a quick protection spell over the moly before placing it in the pouch she brought in her cloak. "Thank you," she says, gently returning the pouch to its pocket.
Circe simply nods, her eyes betraying conflict as the muscle in her jaw ticks. Hecate begins to turn around before the witch stops her. "You should also know," she says, prompting the goddess to look back, "that while pharmakeia, itself, requires the witch's own casts, moly typically does not."
Hecate furrows her eyebrows, shaking her head slightly. "What do you mean?"
Circe sighs, looking down at the flowers. "When I first discovered my abilities, I had hoped to turn my lover into the truest form of himself." She smiles sadly, almost incredulously, at the ground. "When he was a god and Scylla gained his favor, I wanted to turn her into the truest, ugliest, most wretched form of herself."
Hecate merely listens, the moly in her cloak causing her blood to rush with warmth, as though wanting to distract her.
"I needed no magic word or spell. I wanted Glaucos to live with me forever, and he became a god. I wanted Scylla to be hated and she became a monster. I asked for their essence to be manipulated to my own will, strengthened in their inherent nature but still following my own desires." Circe returns her focus to Hecate, bright and glowing eyes somehow appearing dim. "Pharmaka is a ritual in itself. She is the essence of magic, and She knows what She wants. You cannot control what the moly does. You can only guide it."
"And how do I do that?" Hecate asks, voice gentle.
"I cannot tell you exactly," the nymph says, her tone apologetic. "All I had done was ask for my desire. These herbs granted it. I suggest you do the same. Your living vessel is just that—alive. They have their own essence: a soul, if you will. I do believe that the flower you now possess and the ritual you must perform can, in fact, achieve your goal. It is your responsibility to know what your vessel's truest self must be. I pray for your sake, and all else's, that it is wholly and purely good."
Hecate's pulse quickens as her vision of (Y/N)'s lifeless body flashes in her mind. Her chest stained crimson, sword escaped from her hand. Arm extended and eyes turned to the friends who lost her.
An empty shell, soulless, as her essence would be transported to the Underworld.
If Hecate could intervene at the right moment . . .
"Thank you," she says, earning a tiny smile from Circe.
"Good luck," the witch wishes, watching as the goddess's body becomes encased in shadow.
Hecate allows her form to twist and disappear into darkness, speeding away from the abandoned island of Aiaia and returning it to exile.
———
hi! I'm back! for a little bit!
to my fellow Madeline Miller fans, I hope you enjoyed the references lol
my dudes, we hit 700 followers. like what???
also, I recently learned that ppl have been promoting this series on social media?? whoever you are, y'all are far too sweet and I greatly appreciate it!
as always, there are no guarantees for when the next chapter will be out, but I'm doing my best :)
thank you for all the support!! sending love <3