Chapter Text
Prometheus slowly descended the flight of stairs tucked behind Circe's bar. Each step echoed heavily; there was no musician playing, not at this hour, and only a few shades hanging about. Most of them sat on the plush couches, drinking tea or coffee and enjoying quiet conversation. None sat at the bartop, though Circe herself was still working behind it, cleaning some glasses while a small cauldron bubbled over a magicked, smokeless fire.
Outside, the windows were darkened, as oncoming clouds crept over the horizon.
"There's a storm coming," Prometheus said, by way of greeting, as he sat down on one of the bar stools.
"There is," Circe said simply. She didn't shrug, as if brushing him off, nor did she sound concerned either. It was simply fact.
"Is that normal?" He asked, growing irritated. In a place frozen in time, any change in the weather should not only be impossible, but deeply concerning. And yet, here the Witch of Aeaea was, running a rag over an old cup instead of doing something about it.
Circe sighed, and put down the glass she was turning over. She did not meet Prometheus' eyes, but instead procured some fresh fruit and a pair of differently colored bottles from behind her. As her hands started their work, she answered him, "Somewhat. It's not common, but it does happen."
"There are things, Prometheus, out there in the dark beyond creation. You know that as well as I do. Things older than Grandmother. And this is a place that is, nearly, as far from everything else as can be." She placed a glass in front of him, then poured into something he recognized instantly. Dark, spiced wine with muddled blackberries. Prometheus' mouth watered instantly, and his mind, unbidden, drifted far away, into memories he hadn't considered in a human age.
It was a different time, of golden light and green fields. An afternoon celebration on a pair of blooming mountainsides; a young woman's return, her mother's joy. A woman, of crystal waters and flashing waves, and a laugh Prometheus always thought was cruel, pours him a glass of the same liquid. Her husband, haloed with a gilded crown, entertains Prometheus' brothers. It is a peaceful time. It is an age before hardships and Hell. In his mind, Prometheus catches a young girl, perhaps just five summers, her hair the same color as her father's, peak out from behind a rock to watch him.
That same girl pours him the same drink her mother did millennia ago. Back when things were simpler. When Prometheus had far fewer regrets.
Outside of Circe's home, thunder rumbled, and a drumming rain made music on her windows.
"Sometimes, foul things crash against the walls of the worlds. Like sea monsters on the shores of old," Circe said, as she poured herself a cup of the same. "It's only a concern if there's lightning."
The two ancients sat in silence for a moment, before both took a long drink of the glass in their hands. Prometheus put his down first; Circe a moment after.
"So," Circe cleared her throat, "How is he?"
"He's fine," Prometheus said flatly.
She raised an eyebrow at him.
Prometheus sighed, "He's sleeping, now, though I think his dreams are... fitful. His magic is... fluctuating, I think, in response to what you gave him. But its not lashing out. More... reaching. Honestly, I'm surprised at how well he's taken it. And-" Prometheus said, his expression darkening, "I think I am owed some answers about what just happened."
Circe nodded, "Well. He should be dead."
Prometheus' eyes flashed. Circe's cauldron fire sparked, and she jerked her head towards it in concern as her potion sizzled and steamed. She looked back to Prometheus. He took a long sip of his wine.
"Interesting," She said. Then, "Look. I am responsible for all the shades here. That means I also monitor every threat that comes through, or even close, to my borders. Which definitely includes him."
"Him?" Prometheus asked, surprised. "But not me?"
"You're dangerous too. In your own way," Circe said with a shrug. "You have access to the angels and the archangels. You have leverage with the shades. And then there are the secrets you, Minos, and Scylla have tried so hard to keep... locked... away."
Prometheus' face hardened in an instant, but then, almost reluctantly, relaxed again, "I suppose it makes some sense for you to be aware of some of that."
Circe snorted. "You'd be surprised how long I've been around. How long this has been around. I am not the first caretaker of this haven, you know."
"I didn't, actually," Prometheus said. "And, sometime, I would be very interested in hearing the story of how that happened."
"Sometime I might even tell you," Circe said with a smile. "But. The shade."
"Sisyphus," Prometheus said automatically.
"Yes," Circe said, her smile widening into... something else. "Him. And you. You, specifically, Prometheus have the power of destruction, in your own ways, and creation. Your clairvoyance surpasses mine, and is one of the greatest of those of us that remain with that particular gift. Your magic is... impressive, though old-"
"Hey!" Prometheus protested sharply.
"-and, as a Titan of fire, you can do much with it. Much more than many, many people would assume. Or, if I had to guess, know about. Not to mention, again, the connections you have," Circe said, idly dragging her finger over the rim of her glass.
"But Sisyphus... that mortal is another creature altogether. The power he wields... you have warned him against it, I assume. You have told him of the consequences."
"I've... tried," Prometheus said, reluctantly. Circe raised that damned eyebrow of her's again.
"Look," Prometheus said, suddenly defensive. "He's... strong, okay. Almost uniquely so. I'm mean he's not a titan, but still. So yeah, I've told him what I think he needs to know. What we can afford to tell him as of right now. But he needs to be strong. You don't get it, the angels are getting worse. More aggressive. Scylla's talks with the archangels... I honestly think they've become even bigger assholes lately. And there's rumors, now, too. Of seraphs getting involved soon, if the distortions keep getting worse."
"And all of that is terrible, and frightening, and, notably, significantly less concerning than a mortal crossing that particular threshold and coming out the other side empowered by the things no one should dabble with in the first place," Circe countered.
Prometheus scoffed, "You seriously believe a shade could cross that line at all? Like, he's good, but he's not that good."
Circe quieted, then closed her eyes in a grimace. After a moment, she opened them again. "My aunt seems to think so."
Prometheus stilled. "Your... aunt. Which one?"
"The only one that's still around," Circe sighed. The noise came out somewhere between hatred and exhaustion. "Those fucking birds. They took her body, you know, but left her soul behind. Ripped it to shreds. Spread it out wherever they wanted to. They claimed the expansion was natural, but no. They merely cut her out of her corpse when it suited them."
"And where is she now?" Prometheus growled.
"Chained like the rest of us, you can imagine. But lately... well. After your last, shall we say, excursion, the archangels saw fit to move her." Circe's eyes met Prometheus', evenly. For a moment, they weren't ancient powers, rivals on different sides of uncertain battle lines. For a second, they were just family, mourning one of their own.
"There are other vaults, as you know. With... other weapons. And worse things besides." Circe's expression was dark. "But where she is now grants her a degree of... perspective on certain matters. Certain powers. Including some remains from some past Machiadynes. And she seems to think a shade will be the one to tap into that power."
"And you think Sisyphus could be the one to do that?"
"I think his power set matches. And I think he has the willpower, interest, and is lacking enough self preservation to make it possible that it could be him. Which altogether makes him dangerous. Not just to me, or my realm, but to Hell and Heaven itself."
Circe leveled Prometheus a flat look, "But you know all of this already, don't you?"
"I..." Prometheus said, then braced himself on the countertop. He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. "This is all so fucked."
"You're telling me," Circe said simply. She brought out the bottle again. "Top off?"
"Please," Prometheus said, before sitting up again. Circe refilled both of their cups, then clinked her glass against his. Behind him, the rain lashed against the windows.
"So, to answer your earlier question, yes. He is more dangerous than you. Just differently so. A lot more in the realm of 'potential'. Though the jury's still out on which of the two of you could do more damage to my realm."
"Oh, me, easily," Prometheus said. Circe just shook her head.
"In any case, the test I gave him. Or, rather, the test he tried to cheat. What he did should've killed him, full stop. There is exactly zero way he should be asleep, snoozing in one of the guest suites, right now. And yet...." Circe said with a shrug.
"So you arranged it to try and kill him? Taking him off the board, that was your move?" Prometheus asked.
"In order to protect my realm, my people, I would do anything. It wouldn't be the first time I've murdered a magician before he bloomed into his full power, and I've done far worse for worse reasons."
Prometheus looked into the dark depths of his wine. "...yeah. Yeah I can understand that." Then, after a minute, he looked up, confusion on his face, "Wait, cheat? What do you mean, Sisyphus tried to cheat?"
Circe shrugged, "By drinking all of them. I said he had to pick one, and I would drink its match. I never said he had to pick just one, just that he had to pick the ethanol to win. And, with my promise to drink what he did... had I done it, it would've killed me too. Or at least, left me exceptionally weakened."
Prometheus raised an eyebrow, "So what was the answer, if it wasn't 'all of them'? You said you intended for him to die. Was alcohol even an option? Or were they all poisons designed to kill him?"
Circe smiled at him, a wicked thing. It was his grandfather's smile: Prometheus had seen it enough on his own face to recognize it, and what it meant. "Do you really want me to answer that?" She asked.
"...no." Prometheus said, after a moment. He took a long drink of his wine. Circe matched him. The two stared at each other, for a long second, the weight of their situations laying heavy on their shoulders.
"Why are you here, Circe? 'Cause I know the angels didn't authorize your release, and we admins sure as Hell didn't." Prometheus asked suddenly. The words were out almost before he realized he was saying them.
She blinked, then looked into her cup. "I, uh. Well. Heh." Circe raised her eyes and looked at Prometheus, and then set her cup down. She dragged a small stool, previously hidden behind the bar, until it was across from Prometheus, and then took a seat.
"Scylla... needed to talk."
Prometheus raised his own eyebrow at that.
Circe grimaced. "I... lived, my life. When I died, I found myself in Asphodel."
"Asphodel? You?! The bane of Odysseus didn't end up in Tartarus?" Prometheus said, shocked.
Circe rolled her eyes. "A lot happened that you aren't aware of, okay? But, yeah. I did. And it... was. Which is about as much as anyone can say of Asphodel. And then suddenly... it wasn't."
"The Machiadyne," Prometheus said.
"The Machiadyne," Circe agreed. "I was found guilty of witchcraft and sorcery, shocker, and sentenced to Fraud. And... that was my punishment. That's where I was for centuries. Until Scylla showed up."
"You were responsible, weren't you? For her... situation," Prometheus said gingerly.
"Yeah. Yeah you could say that," Circe said heavily. "Scylla came to talk. She was... maybe still is... working through her own healing. And she needed to confront me about everything. So... we talked. She... said what she needed to."
"And then?" Prometheus pressed.
"And then, she left. And came back, a few times. We would talk. Finally, on her last visit, she let me go. Told me not to follow her, but that she couldn't stomach seeing me tortured every time she visited. I haven't seen her since, and I found this place soon afterwards. I had gotten the feeling then that she was not supposed to have done that, and that releasing me was completely her own decision. Thanks for confirming that for me, by the way," Circe said, fiddling with the spoon in her cauldron.
Prometheus blinked, "You're welcome, I guess."
The two sat in the silence for a few moments. The rain battered against the windows, against the world. Thunder crashed in the distance, but, as Prometheus watched, there was no lightning to be seen.
"So," Circe said with a smirk, "Sisyphus, huh?"
Prometheus groaned, "No. Don't even. Nope. I am older than you and I will not tolerate this."
Circe laughed. Prometheus couldn't help but think it sounded like her mother's: like rain on the riverside. It blended uncannily with the storm outside.
Prometheus sighed and shook his head, "He's just a shade, yeah? And one who ended up in Hell, not to mention. They might have their uses, but they're all just failures and fuck-ups in the end."
Circe stared him down, pinning him with a glare that left him (as he figured) unreasonably uncomfortable, "If you actually believe that, Prometheus, you're even more of an idiot than I thought you were."
Upstairs, Sisyphus thrashed in his bed.
His mind was disconnected, his body reacting on pure instinct.
All there is fear - tangible, immutable, crushing and damning all at once.
His soul is elsewhere. A long hallway, or alleyway; paved bricks or laminated tiles beneath his feet.
"Where are you, Sisyphus? Command yourself. You have the power to do so."
The voice is quiet; it is all he can focus on. It is talking to him; he has to get away from it.
But there is another. A light in the gloom. Its matching shadow, creeping along a wall. A human figure, too long and too thin, stepping through an entrance. The door swings open after he has walked through it; the creak of an iron gate coming after the shadow rises.
The figure turns to Sisyphus. In one of his hands is a lantern; its firelight pitch and gold. He raises it to his face. Sisyphus can see the man's teeth: yellowed, pock-marked, broken and cracked.
"You can see him then, can't you? That is not how this was supposed to go. Why have you done this Sisyphus?"
The man lurches towards him. There is a weapon in his other hand.
Sisyphus can fight him. He's done that all his life. He fought Death. What is one man?
Sisyphus reaches for his magic. The shadows lengthen. The too-bright grin widens. There's too many teeth. There's no power in Sisyphus' hands.
No other choice then. Sisyphus turns to run. The ground gives way beneath his feet. He is falling. There is nothing but abyss.
Sisyphus sees the man standing on a ledge of broken glass, looking down at him. His weapon drips blood. Drops of it fall on Sisyphus cheek.
"What is in your pocket, shade? What have you brought to my darkness?"
His pocket. It. The secret thing he stole. Yes. Yes that could do it.
Sisyphus reaches into his pocket and clutches the glimmering thing. He speaks no words; he makes no wish. But power is as power does: Sisyphus knows this. He counts on it.
Gravity reorients. The jailer of Death lands on his chest. There is pain, then. Somewhere, Sisyphus realizes he is not dreaming.
He looks up. There is a conflagration. It is burning his face. He thinks his eyes are watering, the flames are so bright, but he cannot be sure. His tears are evaporating as soon as they are made.
There is a figure, in front of the fire. No, that's not right - he is inside of it.
Muscular and well-defined. Cut and bleeding in half a dozen places. A pair of glowing axes in his hands. He is breathing hard, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Something has happened. There is a shape at his feet.
Sisyphus can see his face. The figure is a little bit scared. The figure is very angry. And somewhere in the back of his mind, Sisyphus cannot help but think just how fucking hot Prometheus looks like this.
"Hated Sisyphus. You are not supposed to be in this moment yet."
Sisyphus jolted awake, breathing heavily. He swallowed, once, then leaned over the side of his bed and vomited into a conveniently placed bucket.
Afterwards, Sisyphus took a few minutes to catch his breath. He looked around, at the room he had been placed in. It's nice enough, he supposed, though it leaves him few places to hide.
His dream came back to him in jagged pieces. Sisyphus eyes widened as something clicked into place. Awkwardly, roughly, he stood, only stumbling once.
It took him a long time to cross the room. As he leaned against the door, his eye caught on one of his shoes, sat next to the entranceway. "Fuck it," he grimaced, and he left the shoes behind as he stumbled out the door.
The halls in front of him swayed as he walked. Everything was too bright, too loud. His head pounded, and he swore Circe was hosting a competition to find the worst drummer in Hell.
The stairs were worse. Every step seemed to bounce around, jumping towards him and back. He kept a death-grip on the railing and descended as best he could.
"Wha- Sisyphus?! What the hell are you doing out of bed?!" Prometheus voice asked, angrily. Sisyphus winced, but turned towards the noise. He could, barely, make out the shape of the titan against the bar. Across from him, a woman with glowing hair.
Circe, he mouthed to himself. Fuck, his head was killing him.
He blinked, and there was a hand holding his arm. Warm, welcoming almost. Sisyphus was suddenly aware of just how cold he was. He looked up at Prometheus face as the titan guided him down until he was seated on the stairs, both of Prometheus' arms holding him in place.
"Hi," Sisyphus said. He couldn't make out the expression on Prometheus' face, but he swore Prometheus made a small noise of confusion. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear a woman laugh.
"I figured out where the apple is," Sisyphus murmured. His eyes were growing heavy. Prometheus felt so warm. It was nice.
"Wait, what?! What do you mean you know where it is?" Prometheus demanded. He shook Sisyphus lightly. "No, don't fall asleep on me, tell me what you know."
"One of the shades," Sisyphus muttered, already halfway unconscious. "One of the ones from Violence."
"Which one Sisyphus? Who are you talking about?" Prometheus asked. He moved his arms, allowing Sisyphus to slouch forward further into him.
"They call him Jack. The Whitechapel Murderer," Sisyphus whispered, and then he was out, feeling safe for the first time in a long time.