Welcome to May, and my first chapter of the month. Spring has most definitely sprung where I live, which means I spent my days off indoors, hiding from the rain. Not ideal, perhaps, but it gave me time to get this chapter edited. Overall, I'm happy with how this turned out, though I suspect this chapter may prove somewhat controversial.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. Your feedback means a lot and it helps me know if I'm doing good or if I need to course correct. Please, keep it up.

Like I do every time, I ask you, the readers, to donate whatever you can afford to help Ukraine. Their fight is only getting harder as time goes on, and every bit helps.

Content Warning: This chapter contains an adult scene. It is clearly marked if you want to skip it.

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Chapter 9

November 4, 19:23

Tower of Fate

If there was one notion about wizards Harry had never understood, it was that they were supposed to be subtle. As he glanced around, subtlety was the last descriptor to come to mind. Lightning cracked overhead like the world's largest bullwhip. For a moment, the rain-soaked forest lit up like a summer's noon. Beneath the thunder, wind howled through the trees, setting the whole forest groaning as it bent under the gale. Sheets of rain slammed against the Tower, the trees, the ground, and the small group of people clustered in a clearing a few hundred yards from the looming monolith. Harry flinched as another spray of freezing droplets washed over his face. Even with an Impervius Charm on his glasses, he could barely see a thing. He hadn't seen a storm this bad since Third Year, when he'd lost his old Nimbus.

"If you invited me here to drown me, you could have just done that back in Gotham." Dick had to shout for Harry to hear him over the fury of the storm. "It would have been warmer."

"Quit moaning," Harry yelled back. "It's not that cold. Besides, this'll be worth it."

Dick had a point, he admitted privately. Even if it was raining rather than snowing, a storm in northern Maine in November brought with it a bitter chill. He found the storm itself a little suspicious, too. Lightning storms weren't exactly common in Maine, yet there just so happened to be one a mere two days after he'd brewed the Animagus potion. Sirius had kept mum on the subject when he'd mentioned it, but he wouldn't have put it past him to somehow arrange the tempest. Even if he hadn't conjured it himself, there were plenty of gods and other spirits who owed Sirius a favor.

"What'll be worth it?" Dick asked, shrugging the hood of his rain jacket a little higher. "You never said what this was about."

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but Sirius beat him to it. "That's because I told him not to. Surprise is the spice of life, after all."

His godfather and Bruce walked from where they'd been having a discussion at the edge of the clearing. Harry wasn't sure what they'd been talking about, or why they'd had to talk about it now, but it looked as if they'd finally finished. Sirius held a small wooden chest in both hands. Neither man looked as if the torrential downpour bothered him in the least. Harry could sense the faint hum of a Warming Charm on Sirius' coat, while Bruce simply couldn't be bothered with such paltry concerns as hypothermia or pneumonia.

"Thanks for coming," he said to Bruce. "I know you're not a big fan of magic, but you're my teacher and Dick's my friend. It means a lot."

Bruce nodded, but didn't say anything. Harry wasn't offended. Bruce wasn't one for emotional displays. He'd shown up, and that said more than enough. Harry had wanted to invite Zatara, too, but unfortunately it was nearing the one-year anniversary of his wife's death. He hadn't wanted to pull the man away from Zatanna. The girl still snapped at him at every opportunity, but she deserved the chance to be with her remaining family right now.

"Alright, let's get on with this before we all catch cold and die," he said. "Sirius, if you wouldn't mind."

Sirius opened the chest and took out a small glass bottle. Harry took it and noted with satisfaction the contents had turned from a cloudy green to a blood red. One mandrake leaf, held in his mouth for a full lunar month. One strand of his hair. One teaspoon of dew, untouched for a week by sunlight or human feet. And, finally, the chrysalis of one Death's-head Hawk Moth. So few ingredients, and yet it was probably the most finicky potion he'd ever brewed in his life. Even the slightest mistake would have awful consequences. If he was lucky, he would die. If he was unlucky, he would want to.

He took his wand in his right hand and pressed it to his chest, just above his heart. For a moment, he just breathed, clearing his mind of any distractions, any stray thoughts, anything but the spell. He'd performed it three times already, but it was still fiendishly complicated.

"Amato Animo Animato Animagus."

As with most spells, the words were merely a focus. The real work went on in his mind. He pictured his magic as a spool of ten-thousand loose threads. With his will, he wound them out and wove them into himself. Unlike most Transfiguration magic, he wasn't changing anything. Rather, he was opening the path for a change that was to come. His bones, his blood, his skin, all of his organs, every last cell in his body, needed special preparation before he took the potion. It was not unlike building a bridge you could drive tanks over, made entirely out of needles. Lightning could have struck him and he wouldn't have noticed. All that existed was the bridge he was building between his current form and whatever form he was about to take. For a terrifying second, the spell wavered on the edge between success and collapse. Then it settled into place. A pulse of magic entered his heart, and it felt as if another beat joined it. He exhaled a breath he hadn't even known he was holding and opened his eyes.

"Well done," Sirius said. "Now, the potion. Fair warning, this part doesn't feel brilliant."

Bruce and Dick glanced at each other uneasily, but he just pulled the stopper out of the bottle and swallowed its contents.

Sirius hadn't been lying. The potion tasted like concentrated vinegar. Worse, lava instantly boiled in his gut. The feeling of two heartbeats intensified until he fell to his knees holding his stomach and trying not to scream. The lava spread, filling his entire body, consuming it from the inside out. He gave up the fight to stay silent, but it didn't matter. His throat and mouth had burned away. He couldn't speak. The heat rose, taking his nose, his eyes, his ears. He went blind and deaf. It reached the top of his head, burning at his brain, and then…

And then nothing. No fiery pain consuming him. No double heartbeat trying to rip open his chest. Even the storm was gone. There was nothing but an endless expanse of cloudy sky. Had he done it? Had the potion worked? He wasn't sure how to tell. Sirius had said he was supposed to know what his form would be, but when he looked at his wings, nothing seemed to have changed.

Wait. Wings? That wasn't right. He didn't have wings.

Except he did. He was soaring through the air on a pair of brilliant feathered wings. His taloned feet were tucked up against his sleek, aerodynamic body. It was so different from what he knew, yet completely natural at the same time. The potion had worked.

Between one heartbeat and the next, the vision ended. He was back in his human body, kneeling in the mud, rain threatening to drown him on dry land. The pain was still gone, at least, though he wasn't sure if the chattering teeth and numbness were an improvement.

"What was that?" Dick said. "You looked like you were dying."

"That was a successful Animagus ritual," Sirius answered, which was good, because Harry still wasn't sure about the not dying part. That potion had been rough. Even the memory of that lava filling his insides was enough to make him grimace. No wonder so few people back home went through the effort of becoming Animagi. "I assume it was successful, at least. Harry?"

"Yeah. Could you get rid of the storm, though? My ears are about to fall off."

"Oh, right." Sirius clapped his hands together and then pulled them apart with a jerk.

"Partis Temporus."

The rain parted around them like curtains. The split ran all the way up to the clouds, which pulled back until there was a large gap in the storm centered on Sirius. Warmth seeped back into the air and, more importantly, back into his bones. Harry sighed and stood up, shaking water out of his hair. The last of the evening sunlight cast a red glow over the woods, the Tower, and a very irate Richard Grayson.

"You could have done that the whole time?" He yelled. "What was the point of standing in the rain, then?"

"Sorry," Harry said, though he didn't put much effort into the apology. Dick wasn't the only one who'd been standing in it, after all, and he wasn't the one who'd completed a dangerous magical ritual while standing in it. "The ritual needed the storm, or it wouldn't have worked."

"Worked for what, exactly?" Dick asked. "You still haven't said what this was all about. You just pointed your wand at your chest, took a potion, and collapsed like you drank arsenic."

"Go on Harry, show us," Sirius added. "At the very least, maybe the anklebiter will stop whining."

Dick flipped Sirius off, and the two started a (mostly) friend exchange of insults. Harry tried to tune it out, though. He turned his focus inward and searched for the new part of him he knew was there. It wasn't hard to find. The preparatory spell had carved the path in his soul, and he walked it with ease. At the other end lay what the potion had given him. Or, perhaps, what it had unlocked within him. Either way, he embraced it.

He felt a faint echo of the potion's heat warm him. Tingles suffused his body, and everything shifted. Sirius, Dick, and Bruce all shot up, along with the surrounding trees. No, they weren't growing. He was shrinking. Tiny pinpricks erupted all across his skin. It itched for a moment, and then he was blanketed in a comforting warmth. Not like the heat of the potion. This was more like a fuzzy blanket. His glasses fell off, but far from growing blurry, his eyesight sharpened beyond any human capacity. All the other changes paled in comparison to what happened with his eyes.

He could see every stitch in Dick's jacket and each speck of stubble on Bruce's chin. The drops of rain trickling down the pine needles were as clear to him as if he were standing just inches away. Colors exploded. Everything was more vivid, more saturated. He could see whole new colors he had no name for. The intensity of it was overwhelming. At the same time, his field of view broadened dizzyingly. He didn't have words to describe it, but suddenly he could see behind him and in front of him at the same time. The sudden rush of input was disorienting. He stumbled, but it felt different than normal. His balance wasn't poor, but it wasn't normal, either.

"That feels strange," he tried to say. What came out was a croaking squeak, almost like a seagull. He wasn't a seagull, was he? That would be a little disappointing. He didn't think he was a seagull. He could see a fair amount of himself with his new vision, and he didn't look like a seagull. He flapped his arms- no, his wings, and those definitely weren't the wings of a seagull. They were a rich yellow-brown, broad and powerful. Just in that one stroke, he could feel the strength in his new muscles. More than that, he could feel the urge to fly. To soar above the earth, free, with the wind. The sky called to him and he ached to answer. He hadn't flown in months. Sirius hadn't taught him how yet, and he'd been too caught up in other things to ask, but now that he had actual wings, the urge was irresistible. He flapped again, and again, letting the instincts this form had ingrained in its bones direct him. In seconds, he was airborne.

Joy. Perfect, wonderful joy. After months bound to the earth, he was free again. It wasn't like riding a broom either. No, this was better. On a broom, he had merely ridden something that was flying. Now he was flying. There was no barrier between him and the wind. He screeched again for the sheer pleasure of it.

That wasn't to say it was easy. Instincts alone were no substitute for experience, as he swiftly discovered. His flight was sloppy, unsteady, and brief. In less than a minute, he misjudged a bank and wound up tumbling across the ground. Mud coated his feathers and grass filled his beak. It was hardly a dignified end to his first flight, but he didn't care. He could fly.

"Alright, I think that's enough for now," Sirius said with a laugh. His voice sounded odd, but still recognizable. "Turn back. Focus on being human and release the Animagus."

He did as Sirius said and, with no small amount of regret, walked back up that path in his soul. The transformation ran in reverse. His vision narrowed and darkened, his feathers retracted, and the world shrank around him as he returned to his former height. He was also aware of something in his mind, a certain complexity of emotion he hadn't truly been aware of until he'd lost it as a bird. Sirius had mentioned once that his feelings were simpler as Padfoot. Harry had never understood what he meant until now.

"That was… awesome," he said as he picked himself out of the mud.

"Awesome?" Dick cried. "Dude, you just turned into a freaking eagle. I'd say that goes beyond awesome."

"An eagle?" He asked. "I couldn't really tell."

"A Golden Eagle," Bruce said. "Aquila chrysaetos. The most widely distributed of all eagle species, and possibly the best fliers of all raptorial birds."

Dick and Sirius both stared at him and shook their heads. It was a little eerie how in sync those two became when there was mischief to be had.

"B, you're… really weird," Dick said, as if explaining something to a child. "You know that, right? It's important to me that you know that."

Bruce sniffed, the image of stolid dignity. "I am well aware, thank you. Alfred makes sure to remind me every week, just in case I forget."

He held out his phone, because of course he'd thought to take a picture. Harry didn't doubt he'd catalogue every detail of his new form for future reference. That was just Bruce, though. He took the phone and looked at the picture.

It showed a Golden Eagle, as Bruce had said. Most of his body was a dark, glossy brown, while his head and neck were a bright gold. A few black feathers peppered his crown, sticking out in odd directions. Most striking of all were the eyes. Far from an eagle's typical yellow, they were a bright, piercing green. It was the same shade he saw in the mirror every morning, but more intense, somehow.

"The eyes are unusual," Bruce continued. "And you looked to be on the higher end of size for a juvenile chrysaetos."

"Thank you, professor," Sirius snarked. "How are you feeling, Harry?"

"Okay, I think." His head was still spinning from the change in sensory input and he was covered in mud, but nothing felt out of place. He looked up at his godfather and grinned. "I can fly."

"Well, sort of," Dick chimed in. "Maybe work on your landings a little. The muddy hobo look doesn't suit you."

Harry stuck his tongue out at him. "I've got two words for you. Just seven letters. Three of them are 'f'. Care to take a guess, Dick."

"Okay boys, play nice," Sirius said. "Now, are you sure there's nothing different? Even something minor. Most Animagus transformations have some effect on your human form."

Harry looked at his hands again and blinked. Something was strange. Not wrong, exactly, but different. Then it hit him. His hands. He could see his hands clearly. He could see everything clearly. His hands, the trees, Sirius' face, everything. And he wasn't wearing his glasses.

"My eyes."

"Your eyes?" Sirius sounded nervous. He was trying to hide it, but a hint of it snuck through. "Is there something wrong with your vision?"

"No, I- I think they're better. I can see just fine without my glasses." Indeed, his vision was better now than it had been even with them before. Not half so good as when he'd been an eagle, but better than he'd ever known as a human.

Sirius relaxed visibly. "Well, that's alright then. Lucky bastard. All I got was a new laugh and a bit of a better nose. Ah, well."

He shook his head mournfully, like the dramatic arsehole he was. Harry threw a pebble at his head, but it turned into a dragonfly in mid-air and buzzed off. Sirius affected not to notice.

"On to business, then. Harry, you're an Animagus now, which means you're also officially a Marauder."

His breath caught in his chest. A Marauder. He was a Marauder, just like his dad had been. Like his godfather still was. Tears swam in his eyes.

"I- really?" There was a lump in his throat, making it hard to speak. Sirius squeezed his shoulder.

"Really. And that means you need a proper Marauder name for your Animagus. As the only member of the original Marauders here, I reserve the right to name you." He thought for a moment and then grinned and spread his arms as if he were giving a speech to thousands. "You are Gwaihir. The Windlord."

Dick snickered a little at the dramatics, but Harry ignored him. Gwaihir. Of course Sirius had chosen a name from Lord of the Rings. The man was practically obsessed with the series. Still, it felt right. Gwaihir. He didn't think he'd ever felt closer to his dad.

"Thank you," he said hoarsely. Sirius nodded and pulled him into a tight hug.

"I'm proud of you."

Those words felt even better than flying had.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

Time Unknown

Somewhere off the coast of Turkey

Vandal Savage checked the stars and carefully eased the rudder to steer his ship a few degrees to port. Salty spray dampened his shirt and the creak of wood and rope and canvas filled the air. He inhaled deeply, reveling in the familiar scents of sea and sail. It had been too long since he'd sailed the Aegean, and even longer since he'd done so in such a vessel as this. Indeed, it had been millennia since anyone but historians and filmmakers had even seen something like the tiny, square-rigged boat he'd been piloting for the past few days. He relished the chance to once more employ skills he'd never thought to need again. No one even made boats like this anymore. He'd spent weeks making it himself; shaping the timbers, sewing the sail, sealing and painting the hull, and, finally, sanctifying it with a blood sacrifice. A little old-fashioned, perhaps, but effective. Besides, after he'd slit the man's throat and burned his heart, the rest of him made for adequate food stores. Vandal Savage was never one to waste good meat.

He could have commissioned the boat, of course, but something about the manual labor had appealed to him. It was too rare he worked with his hands in this age, and having a craft he'd personally built could prove useful in the coming days. Of course, a modern boat, let alone a plane, would have been far faster. This relic was slow, dangerous, uncomfortable, and thoroughly obsolete. However, where he was going, there were certain courtesies he thought it wise to observe. The one he sought to meet could be notoriously fickle, but those of her ilk often respected those who respected tradition. Besides, modern technology likely wouldn't survive this journey. There were advantages to the old ways when magic was involved.

He sailed through the night, then the day, and then the night again, at first stopping only to eat and rest. Within a week, though, his supplies ran out. By mortal measurements, he should have long since arrived, but distance was tricky on a voyage like this. Space meant little here, and time even less. Maps were useless at best, and actively misleading at worst. To his knowledge, no man had knowingly attempted this journey in millennia. Certainly, there were no records to guide him. But he'd been the one to first make this voyage famous, and he still remembered the way. Time had done little to soften the travails of this particular odyssey, and those simple weapons he'd brought with him saw no small use. Homer had waxed eloquent on those beasts they'd slain all those centuries ago, but he'd left out those they'd fled from in terror, and could not have guessed at those that had risen in the last 3,000 years. But sword and spear were as familiar to him now as they had been when Troy fell, and he did not have an irate pantheon hounding him this time.

It was before dawn on his thirtieth day at sea when he finally spotted his destination. An island, small but lush, appeared on the horizon. It was nearly invisible in the pale, pre-dawn light, but no span of centuries could dim the memory of that island in his mind. As he drew closer, he spotted a wooden dock extending from the shore and chuckled. Apparently, his host was expecting him this time. Whether that boded well or ill, he couldn't say, but at least it saved him the trouble of anchoring in a cove and swimming to shore.

He tied his boat to the dock and walked to where the wood met ground. There, he waited patiently as dawn's rosy fingers crept over the horizon. An hour passed, and then another. The sun rose higher to beat upon his back, but found him no more tractable than the stones that made up the island cliffs. 50,000 years of life had given him reserves of patience even mountains might envy, and a few hours waiting in the sun troubled him little. As afternoon faded into evening, his wait ended. The sound of footsteps roused him from his thoughts and he looked to see a woman walking down the path towards him.

She was, by any standard in any age, beautiful. Long, silken hair the color of fall apples flowed to her waist. A green dress, hemmed in gold, accentuated her gorgeous figure and sun-kissed skin. Golden eyes, like sun-warmed gilt, peered from a face that had driven sculptors and poets to madness in their vain efforts to capture its perfection. Yes, she was as beautiful as he remembered, and as terrible. Power flowed from her every fluid movement and authority along with it. That perfect face regarded him as one might a curious beetle. Those flashing eyes promised neither warmth nor welcome, only judgment held in abeyance. She strode down the humble dirt path with as much dignity as any queen. That simple chiton she wore might as well have been battle armor, for there could be no doubt she came ready for battle. She reminded him of the lions he knew inhabited the island, only refined into a platonic ideal of danger.

"Odysseus," she said. Her voice was as beautiful and terrible as the rest of her; a rich, warm honey that could just as easily smother as seduce. "Few can claim to have escaped Aeaea once, and none have done so twice. Why then have you gone to so much trouble to return to me?"

He nodded to her politely, but without deference. "Greetings Circe. I go by Vandal Savage now, and I have come because I have an offer for you. If I swear to do no harm to you and yours while in Aeaea, will you hear me out?"

Her eyes narrowed and her hair stirred in a wind he couldn't feel. Golden lighting crackled between her fingers and the air filled with the smell of ozone. "Do you think I fear you, man?" She spat the word as if it tasted foul. "Do you think I need such an oath to protect myself?"

"I know you do not," he said before taking a step forward. "Just as I do not need one from you to ensure my own safety."

As soon as his foot hit the dirt, a torrent of fire poured from Circe's hands. The inferno bathed the landscape in a lambent glow. Rocks melted and trees burst into flame, but when the fire reached him, it petered out. He stood as an immovable pillar amidst the flames. When they died down, he resumed his pace until he stood so close she had to crane her neck to look him in the eye.

"I am not the desperate, hounded man you knew 3,000 years ago," he said. There was danger in his voice now, too, and she heard it. "I come here in peace. Offer me violence again, and I will leave behind me a smoking ruin. Alternatively, you could hear me out. I believe my proposition will interest you greatly."

For a moment she just stared up at him, eyes glowing with power, face twisted in a mask of outrage. Then, smooth as oiled silk, the anger flowed away, and she smiled.

"Oh, very well," she said. The bitter stain was gone from her voice, leaving only the sweetness of honey and the warmth of sunlight. "Enough of the dramatics. I can see you've lost none of your cunning, old fox. Be welcome upon Aeaea once more, Odysseus."

He blinked at her use of his old name but inclined his head, nonetheless. When she offered her hand, he took it and pressed a kiss to her slender fingers. Memories of a time long passed rose to the surface at the feel of her skin against his lips, but he shook them off. Nostalgia was for men who looked to the past rather than the future. When he released her hand, she gestured languidly for him to follow and set off back up the road.

"Come, lover. I will hear this proposal, but first we should dine. Evening draws near, and you must be tired from your- ah, odyssey. Let no one say Circe shunned a weary traveler. You shall have a bath and new clothes in my palace."

They made their way up the cliffs and through the woods, exchanging pleasantries and reminisces along the way. Nothing of any import, of course. He doubted they would speak of more than ephemera until she'd tried to murder him at least twice more. Circe had always been a hard woman to impress, and she'd reportedly grown less and less sociable over the centuries. That was fine. He'd known what he was getting into, coming back to Aeaea, and he'd prepared accordingly. If she thought to take him off guard, she would be in for a rude awakening.

Her palace was exactly as he remembered it; a low, sprawling affair nestled among the hills of her island. Vivid murals, elegant carvings, and gorgeous tiled mosaics adorned the walls, while tame beasts loped about sparkling fountains in the grounds. She'd expanded her menagerie, he noted. There were the familiar lions, bears, and wolves, but now he spotted zebras, gorillas, enormous serpents, and other, more mythical animals.

"I see you've kept up your habits," he said with a nod to the milling creatures. She laughed and scratched a lion behind the ears. It rumbled deep in its chest and butted against her hand.

"I don't receive as many visitors these days, but some few still find their way to my door. Alas, my food is not to everyone's taste, poor dears. They're much happier like this, in any case. Don't you think so, lover?"

He said nothing. She hadn't lost her delight in being outrageous, but he wasn't interested in indulging her at the moment. Eventually she tired of playing with her victims and led him to the bathhouse.

"You will forgive me if I do not join you," she said. "I must see to our meal. Please, take all the time you wish. I trust you still remember your way around?"

"I believe I will manage," he said. She left, and he turned to the tub. It was a large pool set into the marble floor, wide enough to swim laps and warm enough to fill the air with steam. Before he got in, he dipped a finger and tasted it. Sure enough, beneath the scented oils and perfumes, there was the acrid taint of poison.

"Witch," he growled. Rage kindled into a bonfire in his chest, and with it the instinct to kill. Visions of Circe dead filled his mind; her skull split upon a rock, his teeth tearing out her throat, his hands ripping the entrails from her belly. He could already taste the blood and feel the warm, slippery viscera sliding through his fingers. She dared to poison him? Vandal Savage, who was older than the pantheon that had birthed her? He was the Eternal, the Blood King, ruler of 100 empires. He was Pharaoh, Caesar, and Khan. Founder and destroyer of Atlantis. He had broken his enemies and tasted their flesh. This little witch sought to poison him, did she? He would rip out her heart and eat it raw while she watched. He would-

'No,' he told himself. 'There is a time for violence, but now is not it. She is a potential ally, and I will not dispose of her in a fit of rage.'

The bonfire didn't go out, but it shrank. He forced it into a tiny ball of seething hatred and shoved it down deep. Not gone, but waiting. There was always a use for anger, but only if directed. When he was once more in control, he tasted the bathwater again.

'No magic,' he noted. 'Either she has grown overconfident or she isn't really trying. Either way offers an advantage.'

He didn't recognize the specific toxin, but then again, that hardly mattered. He stripped off his worn clothes and slipped into the tub with a grateful sigh. Poisoned or not, the hot water felt heavenly after a month at sea. He took his time scrubbing the sweat from his limbs and relaxing his aching muscles. Oddly enough, he didn't notice any ill effects from the poison. Not that he doubted there would be some, of course. Circe was the undisputed master of herbs, poisons, and potion craft. Whatever she'd dosed his bathwater with, he'd feel it, eventually. Likely sooner than later. For an immortal, Circe was sorely lacking in patience.

Sure enough, as soon as he left the water, her work made itself known. As the cool air hit his skin, he felt a tingle spread across his body. It grew more and more intently by the second, until every inch of his skin felt like it was on fire. He gritted his teeth and fell to one knee. Boils erupted up across his body like insects burrowing out of the ground. The pain grew until it was all he could do not to scream. Patches of skin sloughed off, leaving open wounds that wept pus and blood in equal measure. His breathing grew labored. It felt as though his lungs had filled up with acid. He coughed, and gouts of blood sprayed across the marble floor. The room spun and slid out from under him. His head cracked against the wall, but he couldn't feel it anymore. Darkness clouded his vision, his thoughts slowed, and with one last, wheezing gasp, he breathed his last. He was already unconscious when his heart stopped.

Ten seconds later, it started again.

His eyes snapped open, and he sucked in a breath, reveling at the feel of fresh air in his lungs. No matter how many times he came back, that first breath was still just as sweet. He picked himself up and made his way over to the bench where a set of clean clothes waited, careful not to step in the mess his death had left on the floor. The boils were gone, and the sores closed. No trace remained of the poison's effects on his body. He got dressed, mindful of the deadly scorpions Circe had left tucked in the tunic. Their sting wouldn't have inconvenienced him any more than the poisoned bath had, but he was eager to get to the purpose of his visit. Besides, it was a paltry effort. Really, at this point, he refused to believe she was doing more than just going through the motions. That was good. It meant she was interested in what he had to say.

Dressed, bathed, and freshly resurrected, he made his way to the dining hall. Like the rest of the palace, it hadn't changed much in three millennia. The tables looked new, and there were individual chairs instead of benches, but aside from that he might have been there to free his crew from her spells once more. He could almost imagine Eurylochus waiting at the bottom of the cliffs, too frightened of the witch to join him, and Polites by the hearth, still trying to grunt a tune even as a pig. He'd never been able to decide if the transformation had improved his singing voice or not. For sure, it couldn't possibly have made it worse.

'Simpler times,' he thought. 'But I am not a man for simple times.'

Circe had set a table for two and was already waiting for him. Her auburn hair was done up in braids, and she'd changed into a blue and white dress with gold bracelets wrapped around her upper arms. With a start, he recognized it as the exact same outfit she'd worn at their first meeting. If she was surprised to see him unharmed, she didn't show it.

"I trust you enjoyed your bath?" She asked politely. No one would ever guess she'd tried to murder him three times in the last hour alone.

"It was most refreshing," he said as he took a seat. "And the meal smells delicious."

That, at least, was no lie. Warm pita with olive relish and cheese, sliced cabbage drizzled with honey vinegar, boiled quail's eggs, grilled octopus, and spiced kid marinated in sweetened milk. For dessert, there was wine flavored with goat cheese and dried dates, pancakes with honey and sesame seeds, dried figs with pine nuts, and even Delian sweets. He sighed contentedly at that last one. He hadn't had proper Delian sweets in over two thousand years.

"You remembered my favorites," he said. It took an effort to keep from smiling. Did she truly believe he would be so easily manipulated, or was she simply trying to ingratiate herself after her blade had missed its mark?

"Of course, lover. We knew each other quite… intimately, once upon a time," she said. "Relationships like that tend to stick in the mind. But please, eat. You must be famished."

He looked her dead in the eye as he took a bite of the kid and washed it down with a swig of sour wine. He felt the familiar buzz of her magic trying to take hold, but a warmth blossomed in his gut and the spell crumbled to dust. Her smile didn't change when he failed to transform, but the rest of her face seemed to draw back from it, leaving it hanging alone in the air.

"You took μωλυ," she said. There was something almost… pleased in her voice. He inclined his head.

"Of course. You are Κιρκε πολυφαρμακοσ, and I am no fool." He set his utensils down and glared at her pointedly. Some of the anger that he'd left burning in his gut from her earlier attempt on his life came to the surface and roughened his voice. "How many more insults must I swallow at your hands before you stop playing around and we can talk like grown-ups? My patience is vast, but not unlimited, and I have used much of it already. Now, I would very much like to enjoy this meal you have prepared. But if you insist upon being childish, I will take my fill of other game."

He could tell the exact moment his meaning sunk in. She leaned forward and the air between them grew thick with leashed power. He refused to break her gaze, though. Let her see him, powerless, unarmed, and alone, stand before her wrath without flinching. That had unmanned greater beings than she, and it worked now. After a few moments, she rolled her eyes and sat back. It was a good display, but he noted the way she had to try twice to swallow, and the tiny flicks of her eyes as she struggled to hold his gaze. Circe wasn't used to people standing up to her in her own home. He rather thought he'd been the last one to do so successfully.

"Oh, lover. You never were one to appreciate my fun. Have it your way, though." She waved her hand and a puff of yellow smoke rose from the food and evaporated in the air. "There. No more tricks. Let us eat and speak of this proposition."

He sat down and once more let his anger withdraw until he needed it again. For a long few minutes, they ate in silence. Finally, just as he saw Circe begin to lose her patience, he spoke.

"To understand what I am about to say, you must first understand who I am. Not merely Odysseus, as you knew me, but who I truly am. You know I am immortal, but that does not begin to describe it."

She arched one perfect eyebrow and popped a grape into her mouth. "Oh? Do tell me the depths of my ignorance."

He ignored the implied challenge and continued on. "I was born 50,000 years ago, in what is now Mongolia. For the first 44 years of my life, I was an ordinary man. I hunted and feasted, fought and fucked, and thought myself complete. One night, though, a star fell from the heavens and changed my life forever."

He proceeded to tell her the story of his origins. The complete and true story, such as he had shared with only a handful of people in his immortal life. From his battle with the bear, to the founding and subsequent sinking of Atlantis, all the way to his eventual encounter with the entity that called itself Darkseid. Of the Light, only Ra's and Luthor knew so much of his past. He was ordinarily reticent about the details, but Circe was not a woman to commit herself without receiving equal devotion in return, and earning her loyalty was well worth giving up a few of his secrets.

She listened attentively as he caught her up on his long and often sordid history. When he had at last finished, the sun had vanished behind the horizon some twenty minutes previous. She nodded and sipped at her wine for a minute before speaking.

"That is a fascinating tale, Odysseus. To hear it was worth allowing you on Aeaea once more. However, I fail to see how it constitutes a proposition. Speak plainly, lover. What is it you can offer me and what would you have in exchange?"

"What I would have from you is complex, but as for recompense… I can offer you power. I can offer you the chance to destroy your enemies and see them broken at your feet. Two enemies in particular, who have made themselves a nuisance to us both in the last century."

Circe clenched a fist, and lightning crackled outside. "Diana and Sirius Black."

"Indeed. My plans involve the Justice League's suffering, humiliation, and eventual destruction."

"Why?" She was suspicious now, but beneath it he could smell curiosity, yearning, and bloodlust. "Despite your condescending assumptions, I have heard of some of your exploits over the centuries. You hardly strike me as a man to revel in destruction for its own sake. What's the real reason you want these heroes dead?"

Her honeyed voice danced seductively through his mind; teasing, coaxing, begging. He could have ignored it, but he did not. Not yet. If she wanted to charm him, to feel as if she were the one in control, then so be it. He'd tasted her charms before, and the experience had not been unpleasant.

"Power, as I said. Not merely for me, though." He leaned forward and passion crept into his otherwise neutral voice. "In my lifetime, I have seen this world's potential. From every disaster, every cataclysm, every apocalypse, new and stronger generations have risen to replace the old. Evolution is destined to propel this world to the center of the cosmos. I intend to see that done. The Justice League, however, would see humanity coddled. They would have the people grow soft and indolent under the blanket of their protection." He sneered. "Short-sighted, sentimental fools. My organization, the Light, means to return this world to its natural, ordained course. We will guide the Earth to its destiny and sit atop an Eutopia that will spread across the stars."

"And where do I fit into these lofty plans?" She was next to him now, whispering in his ear. Her scent filled his nose, and he could feel her caress on his cheek, his shoulders, his neck. Pleasant, but predictable. She hadn't changed her style in the last 3,000 years. That was no reason to dissuade her, though.

"Magic," he whispered back, tilting his head until his lips just missed brushing hers. "Recent events have shown our interests in the mystic world are paltry compared to what they should be. I would have you join us. Lend us your strength, your knowledge, your wisdom. Join us. This isolation doesn't suit you. Join us and you will once again make the world quake at your will."

"And what then, lover?" She was pressed against him now, molded to his side. He could feel the firm swell of her breasts through her dress and taste her breath on his tongue. Her voice was warm oil poured over aching muscles and a cool breeze on summer's day. "Will you make me your queen as you nearly did so long ago? When this glorious empire rises, will I rule at your side?"

When she said it, it sounded like a wonderful idea. He could see it in his mind as clear as if it were already real. Him, once more a king, sitting on a throne atop the world, and her, his perfect queen, powerful, wise, and beautiful, sitting next to him. There were promises in that vision. Promises of wealth and glory. Power beyond imagination and pleasure beyond all reckoning. It was the future as he had dreamed every night for 500 centuries. Perfect and his for the taking. All he had to do was say yes.

He leaned closer to that perfect face until just a hair's breadth separated their lips. Her breath quickened, eyes going wide, until she looked the very image of a woman ready to be taken. Lovely. Vulnerable. Then he leaned further, slipping to one side, and whispered in her ear.

"I think not." With that, he broke her charms. The vision dissolved into mist. Her scent and touch, so intoxicating just a moment ago, became merely pleasant. She reeled back, openly shocked for the first time that night, and he stood from his chair. "You weave a honeyed web, Circe, but a web nonetheless. We both know you could never be content to be anyone's queen, only the queen. Besides, I learned 45,000 years before you were born, never to offer titles you do not already hold. If you join us, it will be as an equal partner. I may have set our agenda, but I do not hold greater authority than any of the others. Merely greater respect. When the stars lie at our feet, then we may speak of titles and ruling, not before."

There was a tense beat where he thought he might have overplayed his hand. Her face grew blank and the fire in the braziers roared higher. He tensed, ready to defend himself if need be, but the explosion never came. Instead, she threw back her head and laughed. Not a charmed, seductive laugh, nor the mad cackle of impending violence, but a warm, genuine laugh, such as he'd heard from her only a handful of times.

"It's been too long, Odysseus," she said with a smile. "Too long since someone has had the strength to stand up to me. Oh, I'd almost forgotten what it's like to converse with anyone other than a lust addled thrall. You're as persuasive as I recall, lover, and twice as formidable. I believe I will join this group of yours. It will be good to walk the world once more, and yours promises to be an interesting venture. However…"

"You have a price," he finished for her.

"I have a price," she confirmed. Not that he'd expected anything less. Indeed, this entire conversation had gone better than he'd hoped. He nodded for her to continue.

"Don't look so surly," she chided. "It's nothing onerous. Quite the opposite, in fact. Indeed, it's something you've given me before, and with great enthusiasm, as I recall."

He arched an eyebrow when her meaning struck him. This was unexpected, to say the least. The beast within him snarled hungrily, eager to slake its lusts on Circe's perfect body, but he restrained himself with ease. Reason dictated caution. He and Circe had not parted on the best of terms last time, and even if she was willing to work with him, he had never expected an invitation back into her bed. At least, not one that didn't end with her slipping a knife between his ribs. Then again, this was Circe. She always had a plan, and she viewed everything, even her own body, as a means to an end. "An… interesting request. Do I sense a larger purpose beyond indulging yourself?"

She sighed and looked at him reproachfully. "It's not polite to question a gift, lover. But, if you must know, I have certain plans of my own. Plans that require help only a man can give. Of all the potential candidates, none appeal quite so much as you. I promise, it's nothing that will harm your designs, and you really don't need to know more than that, do you?"

He thought for a moment before baring his teeth. "No, I suppose I do not."

-Lemon Start-

"Wonderful." She waved her hand, and the room dissolved into mist. When it reformed, they were in her bedchamber. Their bedchamber once, and now theirs again. Circe took a step towards the bed and her dress vanished. Endless expanses of smooth, sun-kissed skin greeted him. His eyes raked from the slender column of her neck, over the firm swell of her butt, and down the length of her legs. The paltry chains of civilization snapped, and Vandal growled deep in his chest. The beast was free. In a heartbeat, he crossed the room. He slipped one hand around her waist while the other wrapped around her throat, pulling her flush against him. She moaned as her body molded against his, the sound hoarse under the pressure he held at her windpipe. He tilted her head back and pressed his lips to hers, claiming her mouth for his own. The hand he had on her hips drifted up to grasp her breast and she moaned again. He growled back as the heat in his blood reached a fever pitch.

He'd forgotten how entrancing she was. Her charms and spells were nothing compared to just her. He could lose himself in the feel of her skin and smell of her hair. It was so consuming he barely noticed when his own clothes crumbled to dust. When she ground against him, though, it definitely caught his attention.

"Do you want me?" She asked. Her voice was a sultry whisper. He squeezed her breast and nipped at her neck in answer.

"Then earn me," she said with a chuckle. The next thing he knew, she grabbed him by the arm and flipped him over her shoulder. The world spun on its axis. He hit the bed with a surprised grunt. Fast as lightning, she straddled him. Her hips pressed against his, but her sharp nails digging into the tender flesh of his throat held the lion's share of his attention.

"Come now, lover," she hissed in his ear. "We made a deal, and so far you're not holding up your end."

He roared and seized her by the shoulders. They tumbled across the bed until he was looming over her with her hands pinned above her head.

"Witch," he growled. She snarled back, but cut off with a gasp as he claimed her.

In the past, their love-play had always been rough, but now it was downright violent. Neither gained an inch of ground they didn't pay for. Her nails tore bloody gashes in his back while his fingers left dark bruises on her skin. Sheets tore, furniture shattered, and screams mixed with moans as they went back and forth. The smell of sweat and blood and sex filled the room. It was as much battle as rut, and in the end, he truly could not have said who the victor was. Perhaps both of them. He certainly didn't feel as if he'd lost, and from her pleased expression, he doubted she did either.

-Lemon End-

"Satisfied?" He asked as he pulled on a shirt.

"Mmmm. And how?" She put a hand over her belly and smiled. "As I thought. Paid in full. I suppose that means next time will be just for pleasure."

He grunted. "When will you be able to join us?"

She hummed thoughtfully. "This little project will take all my attention for a while. Call it three months. How will I get in contact with you?"

"Go to Athens when you are ready. My associate will contact you." He turned back to her, his eyes bright with triumph. "This is a great day for the Earth, Circe. With you on our side, no one will hide from the Light."

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

First things first, thanks to those of you who sent me ideas for Harry's Animagus transformation. In the end, I went with the bird, cliché as it might be, because it's the one I could see him using the most without it taking over the story. A lot of fics have Harry turn into a magical creature of some sort, usually a griffin or a dragon. Ultimately, I find most stories like that lose focus on both the plot and Harry's other magic, and instead become about how cool it is that he can turn into a dragon. I don't want that here.

I didn't initially intend for most of this chapter to be about Vandal Savage, but it just worked out that way. I've been planning to include Circe from the beginning, and along the way I realized it would make sense if Vandal had been Odysseus. There is, technically, already a DC adaptation of Odysseus, but you'd have to be a pretty hardcore Wonder Woman fan to have encountered him, and he's done nothing of note, so I went in favor of Vandal.

I reread books 10, 11, and 12 of the Odyssey to get a sense of Circe's original portrayal, as well as some of her comic appearances. Ultimately, this will be my own take on the character, so please let me know how I did. She's a complicated character with a lot of different moving parts in the background. I have significant plans for her moving forward, so I want to get her right.

Speaking of plans, let me know if you have any guesses as to what Circe's "little project" is, and why she needed Vandal's help. If you have any questions, critiques, or traditional recipes you'd like to share, please leave a review.