The courtyard of Aeaea lay still under the midday sun, the air thick with the scent of crushed herbs and the low, panicked squealing of pigs that had once been men.
Jax stood at the center, moly clutched in one fist, dagger in the other, chest heaving from the shadow fight as he watched the transformed crew root and grunt in the dirt, Kid’s pink snout buried in soil, Pol’s bristled back heaving with confusion, Ment’s trotters scraping stone, Thea’s small form darting in panicked circles, Phil’s ears twitching, Eur’s massive bulk heaving as he tried to rise on four legs instead of two.
Circe watched from the terrace above, arms crossed, expression unreadable but her eyes sharp with something that might have been respect or amusement.
“You have the moly,” she called down, voice carrying like a soft bell over the chaos. “Feed it to them. One leaf per man. Speak their names as you do. The spell will break.”
Jax moved quickly, tearing leaves from the black-rooted flower, the white petals glowing faintly in his hand.
He knelt beside Kid first, the young sailor-now-pig squealing in terror as Jax gently pried open his mouth and placed a leaf on his tongue.
“Kid,” Jax said, voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. “Come back.”
The pig shuddered.
Pink skin rippled, bristles receded, limbs lengthened.
Kid collapsed onto human knees, gasping, eyes wide and wet.
“Captain…” he croaked. “I… I was…”
Jax clasped his shoulder.
“You’re back. Stay with me.”
He moved to Pol next, then Ment, then Thea, Phil, Eur, each name spoken like an anchor, each leaf a lifeline pulling them from the animal mind back to their own.
One by one, they returned, shaking, pale, vomiting the taste of dirt and fear, but human again.
When the last leaf was gone, the courtyard fell silent except for ragged breathing and the soft rustle of leaves overhead.
Circe descended the steps, gown trailing behind her like spilled sunlight.
“They are restored,” she said. “But they will carry the memory. The animal mind does not forget easily.”
Jax looked at his crew, Eurylochus (who had stayed human through sheer stubbornness) helping Kid to his feet, Phil clutching his bow like a lifeline, Thea wiping dirt from her face with trembling hands, Ment staring at his own palms as though expecting trotters.
A blue box appeared, shared this time, visible to all.
The crew stared at the box, then at each other.
Kid laughed shakily.
“I… I ate grass. Gods, I ate grass.”
Pol clapped him on the back.
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“You make a fine pig, brother.”
Laughter rippled, weak, raw, but real.
Jax felt the knot in his chest loosen slightly.
They were back.
Circe led them into a shaded hall open to the sea, tables cleared of food, replaced now with scrolls, jars of herbs, and a single bronze bowl filled with dark liquid that smelled of iron and earth.
She spoke without preamble.
“The road to Ithaca passes through the land of the dead. To reach your home, you must speak to Tiresias, the blind prophet. He alone knows the path and the price.”
Jax leaned forward.
“What must we do?”
Circe gestured to the bowl.
“Sail west to the place where the river Acheron meets the sea. Dig a pit one cubit square. Fill it with blood, barley and honey mixed in. Speak the names of the dead. They will rise. Tiresias will come last. Ask your question. But know this: the dead are hungry. They will try to drink your blood, to keep you with them. The moly will shield your mind. The blood will draw them. Do not let them linger.”
Eurylochus shifted, voice rough.
“And if we fail?”
Circe’s eyes met his.
“You stay. Forever. Wandering shades among the asphodel.”
Silence fell.
Jax looked at the crew.
“We do this. Together.”
Circe handed him the scroll from the night before.
“Instructions. And a warning. The prophecy will cost you. Knowledge always does.”
She paused, looking at Jax.
“You will lose men. Perhaps more than six. The gods demand balance.”
Jax felt the words land like stones in his stomach.
He nodded once.
“Thank you.”
Circe smiled, sad and knowing.
“Do not thank me yet. The dead do not lie. But they do not spare pain.”
She turned away.
The crew gathered their gear.
Jax looked at the sea.
The raft waited.
The Underworld called.
They spent the afternoon in the garden, preparing, sharpening blades, checking ropes, packing what little they could carry.
The golden calf grazed nearby, oblivious, its milk already being used to heal small wounds from the shadow fight.
Kid sat apart, knees drawn up, staring at his hands.
“I felt it. The pig mind. I didn’t want to come back.”
Pol sat beside him.
“You did. That’s what matters.”
Thea approached Jax, voice low.
“He’s right. We almost lost them. If we go to the Underworld… we might lose more.”
Jax met her gaze.
“We might. But if we don’t, we never reach Ithaca. The prophecy is the only map left.”
Eurylochus joined them, sword sheathed but hand on the hilt.
“I followed you through Troy. Through the Cyclops. Through Calypso. I’ll follow you into Hades. But if we lose more men… I don’t know if I can forgive you.”
Jax felt the weight of his words.
“I don’t ask forgiveness,” he said. “I ask trust. One more trial. Then home.”
Eurylochus held his gaze for a long moment.
Then nodded.
“One more.”
A blue box appeared.
Jax looked at the crew.
They were shaken.
But they were his.
Dusk fell.
The raft was loaded, water, bread, weapons, the scroll from Circe, the remaining moly leaves wrapped in cloth.
Circe stood on the beach as they pushed off, alone, gown catching the last light.
She raised a hand.
“Remember,” she called. “The dead hunger. Do not feed them more than you must.”
Jax nodded once.
The raft moved into the open sea.
The island receded.
The crew sat in silence, oars dipping in rhythm.
Jax looked back once.
Circe stood motionless, a golden figure against the darkening sky.
He turned forward.
The horizon waited.
The Underworld called.
A final blue box appeared.
Jax gripped the rail.
The sea lay open.
The dead waited.
