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The first time he had set foot on the island of Aeaea, Spelldon had given him a set of instructions:
"Dress light, not a lot of layers, you'll be changing clothes when we get there anyways."
"Bring her wine, get on your knees and bow your head when you give it to her."
"When she takes it, keep your head down and hold her feet, thank her for seeing you and don't get up until she tells you to."
He had done as he had been told, and made sure to act out each step as carefully and as perfectly as he could as to not invoke her ire. Circe, like his own mother, upheld traditions. Though, unlike his, Circe was a goddess that deserved to have those traditions upheld in her presence, if not for simple honour then for fear — thankfully by her grace, even despite her distaste of men, she had smiled down at him and placed a delicate but powerful hand upon his head, and accepted him fully.
The island of Aeaea lived in a perpetual warmth, even when Helios made his descent behind the ripples of the ocean's horizon, so that Selene may take her rise, the earth and sand and rock still held his lingering warmth until he rose again the next day. The grains of its beach were sun scorched and burned him, and at first he found it difficult to find comfort in the thick and humid air, even that hot against his fair skin, damp with sweat, and the process of being ushered into her palace by nymphs, who tugged at his clothes and instructed him to change into the robes that were prepared for him he found odd and confusing. That was some time ago, fuzzy like a distant memory, he had visited often and now he felt Aeaea as a second home, its warmth welcome and the robes familiar.
This visit was like any other. He stood in his robe, dyed a light pink, made specifically for him at Circe's request, cinched at his waist with a gold threaded cord, the almost weightless fabric of the dress pooling slightly at his bare feet, and he watched as Spelldon and his sister Casta picked fruits from the ever lush garden, filling their weaved baskets with peaches and figs, Circe's white palace at his back as he held his umbrella over his head to shield him from the beating sun that could so easily kill him if he wasn't careful.
"Kieran," Circe called from where she lay on her side on a plush lounge chair behind him, set under the carved stone of her palace. She was the only one besides his own mother that called him by his first name. That too, he had grown used to.
He turned to her quickly, lest he leave a goddess waiting. "Yes?" he asked, and was met by a beckoning wave of Circe's hand, calling him to her.
Kieran's steps were quick up the small flight of stairs to the platform where she sat, his umbrella coming down to close once he was under the safety of the shade the hanging stone provided, held up by similarly carved stone pillars. Circe motioned to the identical chair beside her, only separated by a circular ornate table that held a bronze bowl of grapes, of which he had not seen her eat from.
"You will sit with me, yes? Have reprieve from my father's heat," she offered.
"Oh, yes, thank you, I was feeling rather hot." At first it had unnerved him a bit, the goddess being able to predict what he thought, how he felt, sometimes even before he could think or feel them, now he gave it no second thought.
He set his umbrella down, propped against the chair, then took a similar position as her, though Circe was a tall woman, her divinity towering over most, and these chairs were made for her, the size swallowing him and making him feel small and childish against the purple fabric. He angled himself slightly so he could still be watching Spelldon in the garden, his fingers gently working against the fragile skin of ripe fruits as he pulled them from their trees.
"May I?" Kieran turned to Circe for a moment, a finger pointed to the bowl of grapes.
"Please, have your fill."
"Thank you, Miss Circe."
He plucked one of the small purple fruits from the bowl, its surface smooth and shining. He put the grape in his mouth, its sweet juices over his tongue like nectar as he turned his attention back to Spelldon, and his mind began to wander to things he always found himself thinking of when they were here.
One thing he found he could not get used to, was the sight of Spelldon in his own robes. His was a stark white that seemed to make him glow against the light of the sun, a shorter skirt piece than his sister's or Kieran's own, though similarly cinched with gold, the top coming to tie at one shoulder, with a cascade of rich and royal purple fabric that flowed down from the tie, almost down to his bare feet, like rushing water over a mountain top, adorned with intricate golden designs, with similar gold decorating his head with a headband and his wrists with cuffs. He was ethereal like this, Kieran thought, godlike in his own right, belonging only in the paintings from the time his mother was from amongst the other gods and demigods, and not standing, living and breathing, only a few feet from him.
He was reminded of Spelldon's divinity, of the fact that he was indeed a demigod, the son of a goddess and a mortal man. He had asked once, who his father was, which was met with a half-hearted mumble of 'Odysseus', and it was clear he did not want to speak more on it, not that he had to, so it was left at that. Kieran has read the stories and the epics, detailing the ways in which demigods like Spelldon rose and fell — Heracles, a hero, praised and worshipped for his strength, forced to kill his own wife and children. Achilles, the greatest of the Greeks, with abilities to be both admired and feared, driven to vengeful madness at the death of his lover. Story after story, tragedy after tragedy.
He had thought them only stories then, tall tales and fantasy, but after meeting Spelldon he knew them to be true. He had seen how Spelldon carried himself in casketball and SKRM, his speed that made him practically untouchable, his agility and precision, the power behind his steps and strikes, and while Monster High was full of monsters who had powers of their own, Kieran himself had powers that could rival even the strongest, no one could match Spelldon, no one could call themselves a demigod.
Spelldon was the same as them, the demigods written into Greek history, and he couldn't help but wonder, as he did every time they landed on the sands of Aeaea, every time they mirrored the ancient traditions his mother kept, if he had been alive then, would he have turned out like them too?
"You are lost in thought," Circe spoke from beside him, pulling him back to himself.
"Sorry, guess I spaced out a bit," Kieran chuckled a bit sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his head as he turned to face her fully.
"Tell me what fills your mind," she prompted him.
He floundered a moment, not having expected her to ask, or rather, tell him, to pour out his thoughts on the table between them, his mouth opening as if to start, then closing again when no words came. His eyes drifted to Spelldon again, and he found the words to speak.
"I've been wondering, you know, about gods and demigods and all that.." he admitted, still facing Circe but his eyes on Spelldon's shape.
"Oh? What of?" she asked, Kieran's eyes dragging back to the goddess in front of him.
"Well... I just can't help but think if Spelldon had been around back then, since he's your son and all... Would you have wanted him to be like that? Like Heracles or Achilles?" The question left his lips like a ghost, leaving them feeling dry and his chest feeling hollow.
Most demigods were heroes of war, their honour and glory soaked in the blood of men. He could not imagine Spelldon like that, he did not want to. The violence held by the end of a spear, the bow of an arrow, the hilt of a sword, bodies piling at his feet as he dripped in their crimson, smelling of copper and death, driven by the bloodlust that came with chasing his glory, his immortality, for his story to be carved into stone, weaved into tapestries, written into epics, made into song, to ensure his place among the gods. That was not his Spelldon.
But Circe was his mother, a goddess, and if that was what she had wanted for him, it would have been so.
"Oh no, the ancient men of Greece were barbaric, I would not wish for my son to be as they were," Circe answered in honest, and a strange sense of relief washed over him, like he no longer had to worry about something that would never come to be. "There was a time, however, that I thought that might be what he wished..." She continued, her voice suddenly melancholic.
"What do you mean?" That worry returned to him then.
"He had been reserved, even when he was young, he did not fuss, did not seek company or companions. When I told him the stories of our past, he seemed almost... Wistful. He had the hard look of a soldier then, and I braced for a day he might come to me with wishes for glory that only war could grant him..." Circe recalled, downcasting her eyes to the gleaming purple grapes, their juices sweet and full of life, but so easily crushed under the pressure of teeth or feet. Demigods were still made of mortal flesh, and she did not wish to mourn her son.
This, also, Kieran could not imagine. The thought that Spelldon might have wanted that fate felt wrong and made his stomach curdle. Could he really wish for such bloodshed, just in the name of honour and glory?
"But he did not, he was made softer now," Circe picked her eyes up, the gentle sadness gone from her face, replaced by a warm smile.
That relief again, like fresh air filling lungs charred by smoke.
"Softer? By what?" he questioned, his head tilting like a curious dog.
"You, my dear."
He blinked a few times in surprise, almost stupidly. His head turned to find Spelldon again in the garden, now comparing the fruits in his basket to his sister's haul, a competition being made over who got more, who picked the better fruits. The thought that, even if Spelldon had truly wished for a life like that, one he could no longer live, a fate that would forever evade him, he had been the one to pull him from that want for blood soaked glory, to carve a place in his heart and soften him to the glory in love, it warmed him from the inside out, like Helios himself came down, held him softly, and kissed his forehead.
"Good, I wouldn't want him to be like that either." a smile, just as warm, split on his own lips as he watched Spelldon and Casta bicker playfully.
"You will keep him soft then?"
Kieran turned back to Circe, smiling still but with a sureness in his body that the goddess could feel.
"Yes, always."
Circe did not have to question the honesty behind his words.
"Good, then it shall be."
She took a grape from the bowl, holding it out in Kieran's direction. "Eat," she instructed, though gentle.
"Oh, right, thank you." he took the grape from between her fingers and placed it in his mouth.
A comfortable silence washed over them for a few moments, just the sounds of plants gently swaying in the warm breeze, animals singing their songs in the distance, and demigod and demigoddess squabbling in the garden while Kieran picked grapes from the bowl.
"Aphrodite favours you," Circe stated, breaking the silence after he had eaten at least a handful of the small fruits.
"S - she does?" he asked, surprised. He would have thought the goddess of love would sooner hate him than favour him due to what he had done, he would not think her wrong if she did.
Circe nodded, her eyes closing peacefully.
"She came to me and told me herself, so it must be so." Her lips were only closed for a hairsbreadth after the words left them before they opened again. "My son calls for you."
"Huh — ?"
Only a moment later he heard Spelldon's voice from the garden.
"Val! Come here, we need you to decide who picked the better fruit!" Spelldon, his Spelldon, waved him over.
"Oh, uh - coming!" Kieran called back, going to Spelldon now taking the forefront of his mind over what he was told, that he could ponder later.
He stood, straightening out the skirt of his robe before he took his umbrella back into his hands, opening it to hold it above him as he stepped out from under the stone overhang and down the steps. Kieran didn't see it, but Spelldon did, the way a particular ray of light seemed to follow him, the way his hair seemed to shine brighter, a gentle gust of wind jostling the dark strands softly and making the light fabric of his robe sway in just a way, just right, perfectly, beautifully, ethereal.
Spelldon's breath got caught in his throat and his face flushed, his grip loosening on his basket and letting peaches and figs tumble from it, some bruising and bursting in their ripeness. He heard Casta laugh beside him, her elbow jabbing into his side, and he quickly realized what he was doing, correcting his grip as he cursed.
"Good going, loverboy, now I have the best and the most!" Casta said through her laughs, her free hand not holding her own basket gripping her brother's shoulder.
"That's not fair, I was distracted!" Spelldon huffed as Kieran joined them, unable to stop his own giggles from bubbling up in his throat at the scene as he collected the salvageable fruit from the ground and placed them back into Spelldon's basket.
He looked between their baskets, Casta's now being much fuller than Spelldon's, and he gave an amused smile. "Well, she certainly has the most."
Spelldon pouted a bit, staring hard down at the now nearly empty basket in his hands, but couldn't hold it for long, realizing just how ridiculous it was as he snorted, softening.
The three of them laughed together in the garden, and Circe smiled from her chair.