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Hell’s soil had a specific scent.
Circe was used to Hell. She had to be, considering how long she'd been trapped in it. Her knowledge of the outside world was part memory, part prophecy, and part dreams. Still, it was disconcerting at first to dig into soil, something so familiar to her, and be met with something besides the earthy scent of the dirt she'd worked with in Aeaea.
Outside of Circe's prison, soil was diverse. It ranged from from deep, almost-black browns to reddish to light yellows, from tough clay to rough sands, from little besides rock to a layer of dead plants. There had even been extreme cases, which she may have once believed to resemble Hell. Volcanoes, resetting the world in ash and fire while providing nutrients for future growth. Rainforests where the combination of acidic soils, and heavy rains prevented soils from gaining nutrients, yet which flourished anyway due to scavengers and decomposers. Places where life thrived due to the natural cycles of death and rebirth.
Hell was like nothing in the land of the living. Circe had once thought that the ground, with its warmth and flakes of ash, could care for some smaller plants. But underneath the ash was nothing but hard, unforgiving volcanic rock. It was mercilessly resistant to anything attempting to grow there. And the ash, which would be fuel for plants aboveground, contained little nitrogen or phosphorous— only a combination of sulfurous hydrocarbons, mixed with the occasional metal. Terrible for plant growth. Circe had seen lichen and a fungus or two growing on the rock, but that didn't change the simple fact that it would take years for there to be enough soil for the shallowest roots to take hold.
Hell was a home to monsters. Consumers. Producers were sparse, and often hostile. Circe had worked out how the ecosystem of her foes operated: weaker creatures fed on phytoplankton, and anything strong enough to win a fight fed on each other. Circe knew, logically, that there had to be easier places for growing spell components off of this island. She wasn't sure where. She wasn't sure it mattered. This island was her prison and her home. There was no purpose in theorizing about far-off places she may never escape to see.
Circe had dried out the few vegetatious spell components she had, and stored them in her reserve. Once she used them up they'd be gone. She could see enough of the future to know that there would be a right moment, someday. She couldn't replace them, couldn't afford to be without them. Instead, Circe modified her spells to function with what she could reliably find: metals, ash, rock, and the animals that showed up at the island every now and then. Seeds washed up, sometimes, but Circe saved them for later.
This would be her prison for a while. She may live to see a day where the ground could sustain them.
This was Circe's routine until Diana. And wasn't that a statement that explained Circe's life? Diana transformed Circe from an uncaring loner to a woman with an apprentice and a daughter in one to care for. And. Circe couldn't simply not teach Diana how to do spells with plant components, not with the destiny that she knew was ahead of her daughter, not knowing the drawbacks and flaws within the magic she'd regularly practiced in the time before the island had a second occupant. Diana gave Circe a reason to believe even the harshest of people could grow kind. If Circe could undergo such a metamorphosis, she could find a way to do something similar to the island, create an area where she could finally grow herbs she needed for magic in fertile soil.
“Sit still,” Circe chided as Diana squirmed. “If you’re going to help me garden, you need your hair up this time.”
“But why?” Diana asked. So young, and like most children, so inquisitive. Diana's ceaseless desire to understand reminded Circe of her younger self, her own enthusiasm back when she'd been beginning to learn magic.
“Because it’s messy. I don't want to have to comb leaves out of your hair again. You can keep it down when you're old enough to brush it yourself, or when you decide to stop sticking your head in the bushes,” Circe responded. There was no annoyance in her tone— Circe typically found Diana's questions endearing, and she was mature enough to hide it when she didn't. She finished tying the hairband. “Do you remember which are weeds and which are my plants?”
“Mostly.”
“And if you forget one, you will…?” Circe trailed off. She knew Diana knew the rules. It still hardly hurt to check.
“Ask you.”
Satisfied, Circe led the way to the section of the island that she’d chosen for the garden. It was a small depression along the mountain, meaning water flowed towards it, which allowed for a buildup of sediment. The ash was extremely low in nutrients, but the little that it did have would go a long way. Furthermore, the area was somewhat protected from wind and only a short walk from the cave.
Diana shook the can of Circe’s growing mix, a spell she'd formulated that allowed for plant growth on the ground where it was sprinkled. “We’re running low.”
“I can replenish it,” Circe reassured.
“Can I help this time?”
“No.” Witch blood was the ingredient that allowed the spell to work. Circe wasn’t protecting Diana from seeing the blood; she didn't want her daughter to start asking about the sacrificial nature of spells. Not yet, at least, Not until Diana was old enough to be able to judge if the benefit was worth the cost.
A little bit of blood was a minor sacrifice, and it didn't drain her or have permanent implications. That didn't matter. Diana was so thoroughly good, so willing to see the best in people and things. She had a love for all living things. This love was a rarity in Hell, it was something precious, and it scared Circe more than she cared to admit. Love was a transformative force. Was it so selfish for Circe to not want it to change her daughter? What kind of mother would she be if she taught Diana self-sacrificing tendencies early on, knowing that Diana was already inclined towards doing the best for others over the best for herself?
Diana would grow up to be a hero. But who wants that path for their child? Circe was already prouder than she could ever hope to articulate of what her daughter would become. That didn't stop the sorrow and dread Circe felt when she thought of the tragedies that accompanied all heroes.
Diana skipped ahead of Circe and began sprinkling the spell mixture in the garden. Circe couldn’t resist taking a moment to watch the girl. Diana was Circe's greatest achievement. She was the tree that had pushed its roots into Circe's life, molding the foundation around its presence. And here she was, taking care of the (more literal) saplings that Circe had planted. It would take years for them to be able to produce anything. That was alright. Circe had learned that the best projects took years of care.
She knelt down. Mint had gotten into the area again. She didn't know where it kept coming from, but she could never hold it back, only remove what she could. Somehow, there was always more there after only a couple days.
Diana crouched next to Circe. “Isn’t mint a good plant?”
“No,” Circe grunted as she dug the shovel into the earth.
“But you cook with it, dry it, use it in spells—”
“Yes,” Circe interrupted. “It’s a good plant, when it’s contained. But if it’s allowed to, it'll grow and grow until it takes over the whole garden. Something can be good in some places and bad in others, or good in small amounts but bad if allowed to grow unrestricted.”
Diana hummed thoughtfully. “So the weeds aren't bad? Just bad when they're here?”
Circe shrugged. “Pretty much. Nature doesn't live in good or bad. Even parasites have a purpose. It's only when you want order, or to defy what nature wants to do, that categories of good and bad even exist.” Circe paused her digging to gesture towards a patch of red-brown grass. “That provides ground cover, food for grazers, and hiding spots for small animals. But I don’t want grazers or small animals in my garden, eating my plants. The ground cover is only helpful if there aren't other plants holding the soil down, which there can be if we remove it.”
“Why not replant it elsewhere?”
Circe shrugged. “I could. But there's only so much time, and that just isn’t a priority. Someday, I probably will want to replant a different weed.”
“Like what?”
“This is an island,” Circe laughed. “Everything here washed up, swam, or flew. Who knows what might show up?"
“Even a person?”
“I’d be surprised. But I’ve been surprised before.” She waved Diana off, a small smile growing on her face. “Go on, dig it up. The longer that stays here, the further it’ll spread.”
Something Circe liked about gardening was that it was a way to channel her more ruthless nature into something productive. She may not be the same cruel person she had once been, but just because she didn't want to actually hurt people didn't mean she didn't get the urge to do so. Sometimes, when she was annoyed with something from the punishment the gods had given her to a spell not working right, she would walk to her garden and stab the dirt, eliminating weeds similarly to how she'd once eliminated men.
What Diana did was nothing like that. She was gentle, careful. She spoke to Demeter before she began, as though the culling of weeds deserved the same reverence that was given to something grown on purpose.
To Diana, even weeds were living things, and they deserved respect. Circe couldn't help but wonder where her daughter had gotten it from— certainly not her, even if she wished she could take credit. Diana had taught Circe as much as Circe would ever teach Diana. Maybe it was just Diana's nature to see the world with kindness first.
Some kind of lizard crawled out of the grass and hissed at Diana, snapping Circe out of her sentimentality. She tried to hold back a laugh as Diana picked it up and it snorted smoke towards her face. It seemed like at least a few things stayed the same through the years.