Favoured Son

Link to article: Favoured Son.

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[[include :scp-wiki:component:info-ayers
|lang=en
|page=
|authorPage=
|comments=**Team The Mekhanisms' third entry in [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/pdcontest2025 PUBLIC DOMAIN CON].**

**Co-written by [[*user Dino--Draws]], [[*user Diogene_s]], and [[*user Ralliston]]**

**[https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/dinodraws-author-page ► Dino--Draws' Authorpage]**
**[https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/diogene-s-disambiguation ► Diogene_s' Authorpage]**
**[http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/ralliston-s-authorpage ► Ralliston's Authorpage]**
]]

[[==]]

[[div class="wanderers-note" style="text-align: justify;"]]
Nobody,

It was wise to seek the answers here, in the Library, if you still do not know who you are -- or indeed what your purpose is. While things may lie uncertain, the endless stacks here may grant you some clarity with the knowledge therein. 

We all walk lonesome, bloody trails -- and none are as well preserved in the annals of history as that of the cunning Odysseus, even if the forces of the Veil have tried as they might to scrub it out of our history.

May the realizations of our Seventh pave the way for your own, in the knowledge of our everlasting hunt.

[[>]]
-- Your Fourteenth
[[/>]]
[[/div]]

[[div class="entry"]]
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]

[[size 150%]]**Favoured Son**[[/size]]

[[>]]
**The Dread Goddess
He Who Talks With Mortals
The Aeaean
Daughter of the Sun
Circe**
[[/>]]

[[div style="overflow: auto"]]
[[div class="section"]]
= **Conspectus**

It is with deep sadness that we remember Circe, our dear friend and ally. For nearly three millenia, the light of their[[footnote]] Just like with all aspects of Circe's existence, she rarely did stick with one, unchanging form; as such, she's appeared to many under many Names. As far as we've been told, though, all of them are proper -- though perhaps not always accurate, at any given time and place. //-- Xenia// [[/footnote]]^^,@< >@^^[[footnote]] His forefathers would be proud. //-- Father Winter//[[/footnote]] voice illuminated the corridors here in the Library, their wisdom a guiding path to all stranded Nobodies -- warriors for a shared cause. Circe was here when the hour was most dire, over and over showing us all a better way forward --  not through rash choice, but through clear prudence and years of experience.[[footnote]] And, of course, through her foresight. //-- Midnight// [[/footnote]]^^,@< >@^^[[footnote]] I don't doubt your other magical talents, Midnight, but I really don't think knowing how precognition works is your strong suite. //-- [[[i-was-the-queen-before-it-was-cool|Angevin]]]// [[/footnote]] Experience earned both in these gloomy corridors and through sweat on battlefields against the Adversary[[footnote]] Meaning, of course, Mab herself. //-- Father Winter// [[/footnote]]

But that was the past, when they still roamed between the towering bookshelves amidst music from their golden harp. Now, with the world as we know it falling apart, when it seems their guidance would be needed most, they have gone. Where to, we cannot say. Many have tried to find them, perhaps lost somewhere in the depths of the Library in search of a trick that could help the Nobodies slay the Enemy once and for all, but no search has yet bore fruit.[[footnote]] Maybe in the [[[the-black-vaults-of-alagadda|Black Vaults]]] -- like, you know, I have //always suggested//? //-- Midnight// [[/footnote]] 

So where //is// Circe, child of the Sun? Where has their light gone -- and how can we bring it back?

[[/div]]

[[div class="section"]]
= **Illustration**

[[=image circe.jpg width="500px" style="border: solid 2px; border-style: outset; border-color: rgb(var(--gray-monochrome));"]]

= //Circe, as seen[[footnote]] Are you sure he actually //saw// her? I //sincerely// doubt someone like him had decency enough to do //any// research besides just looking at his wife. //-- Midnight//[[/footnote]] and depicted by the human painter Wright Barker. As always with such inherently limited forms done by inherently limited peoples,[[footnote]] Come on, now, not all of us are //that// bad. //-- Xenia// [[/footnote]] it depicts but one -- rather simplistic and narrow -- view of their appearance. Still, it shows that which matters most: the might of their craft, and those foolish enough to question its potency.//
[[/div]]

[[div class="section"]]
= **Knowledge**

**Traits:** Above all else, Circe is a witch.[[footnote]] Not meant pejoratively; the modern-day rendition of the word has been thoroughly poisoned by many bad faith actors throughout the centuries, but rest assured: Circe is from a day and age where none of our enemies have yet spread their poison. //-- Xenia// [[/footnote]] A talented mage by both birthright and practice, Circe's very blood runs with magic more ancient than any of us here.[[footnote]] Rather uncharitable wording! It has been many years, but I can assure you: I still remember how the little Dagda and Morrígan looked in their cradles. //-- Father Winter// [[/footnote]] From their mother's side, their soul is that of the islander peoples of Tuatha Dé Danann; from their father's side, their heart is that of the ancient gods of oldest men, their wisdom bequeathed by Goldbaker.[[footnote]] [[[my-name-is-no-one|Then more commonly known as Helios]]]. //-- Midnight// [[/footnote]]

As such, Circe is the bearer of many secrets and many skills -- most of which they have mastered uncontested. Their occult arsenal is vast, but the skills they favoured most were those of shapeshifting,[[footnote]] More often used on their enemies than on themself. //-- Xenia// [[/footnote]] oneiromancy,[[footnote]] Hard to be a minor god without entering people's dreams every now and then, I suppose. //-- Midnight// [[/footnote]] nomenmancy,[[footnote]] A most skilled sorcerer with Names, he was. Rarely has there been anyone not fully blooded //Sidhe// with this much raw talent. //-- Father Winter.// [[/footnote]] and precognition.[[footnote]] To be fully precise: what Circe practiced was not precognition. Precognition is passive knowledge of what's to come; what Circe had required active divination to achieve. //-- Angevin// [[/footnote]] Their power was far amplified when they became worshipped by a few stray Mycenaeans, who'd found their way to Circe after the fall of their Broken Empire. 

**Nature:** Just like all those blessed with faerie blood -- especially Tuatha blood -- Circe was like the sea and the wind more than the rock and the tree.[[footnote]] Is this racist against elves? I vaguely feel like it is. //-- Midnight// [[/footnote]] They lived closer to the way of the Fae peoples before the Empire[[footnote]] Not the Broken Empire of the Mekhanites, of course; the text means the First Empire, that of Mab; the Empire that chained the world's magic and forbade its natural, changing ways; that whose ever-restless spirit Circe promised to destroy. //-- Father Winter// [[/footnote]] than to their own mortal kin -- they cherished change and the fluidity of the world around them more than the illusion of stability offered by stagnation. 

Circe was a tempest. Merciful to those with the  humility to recognize a hurricane, but ruthless to those who dared to threaten their isle. They were quick to anger -- not always unjustified -- and resolute in their judgment. Despite this, many stories remain of those who have visited their island and lived to tell the tale. Those intruders were rare, but in spite of their flaws Circe saw value in mortal craft. They were fascinated by the different ways mankind practised the Art, and though Circe was not the trusting kind, their facade of coldness would often fall when presented with new knowledge.

It is important to mention that the way in which Circe practiced their talents was unlike anyone else. They merged together the secrets of the Tuatha -- such as their shapeshifting and experience against many enemies ten times their size[[footnote]] As profusely seen by the fleeting Odysseus. //-- Midnight// [[/footnote]]^^,@< >@^^[[footnote]] This has aged //[[[lte-0851-cetus|terribly]]]//. //-- Xenia// [[/footnote]]^^,@< >@^^[[footnote]] To be entirely fair to the peoples of Hy-Brasil, their forefathers had more than wisdom enough to tackle the likes of the implicit Nessilatha -- and indeed of the explicit Ieva. It is not their fault the children of their children were just as proud as the enemies they had felled so many eons ago. //-- Father Winter// [[/footnote]] -- with the knowledge of their contemporary Nälkäns and Mekhanites.[[footnote]] Now this is just ridicilous. Circe //might// have taken //some// tricks from the arsenal of Ion -- and even fewer from the Broken through their contact with Odysseus -- but to call either a fundament of their craft is thoroughly dishonest. //Especially// with their hatred for imperialism in all forms, which is a trait I hope I don't remind everyone Mekhanites carried with them everywhere they went. //-- Angevin// [[/footnote]] This all -- combined with their prelonged lifespan, courtesy of both Goldbaker and mortal worship -- formed and truly formidable figure.

For all their skill, however, Circe was a recluse.[[footnote]] Before she came to the Library, in any case. //-- Midnight// [[/footnote]] They enjoyed the silence of solitude, broken only by the occasional wave. They lived as a monarch on an island populated only by themself and the unlucky few bastards who had thought themselves better.[[footnote]] What the text is trying to say is that the idiots who threatened her mostly got to spend the rest of their life as obedient pigs -- or lions, if Circe had a particularly good mood that day. //-- Midnight// [[/footnote]]Nevertheless, it cannot be ignored that their solitude is partially what brought them here, eventually -- and what brought them closer to their greatest talent: understanding the cycle of Nobody.

**History & Associated Parties:** The story goes like this: a young, sun-brilliant Helios travels the world in search of opportunity -- opportunity for both kinship and gold. They travel far and wide until -- perhaps by fate,[[footnote]] By now you should know there's no such thing as fate. //-- Angevin// [[/footnote]] perhaps by pure accident -- amidst the raging Aegean sea they meet a Tuatha ship, stranded in their journey. Goldbaker might not be a human, but they are still //human// -- they cannot possibly not help the troubled soul, as it turns out only one of the Hy-Brasilians had made it this far.

Before long, the two fall in love, and baptize a child amidst those violent tides. They name the child Circe.[[footnote]] I would not put all my trust into this particular story. The Tuatha peoples rarely if ever sailed this far away from their home, and saying that Goldbaker -- even with all the youth they still then had -- would be willing to help anyone //this// selflessly //and// fall in love feels a bit suspect. //-- Midnight// [[/footnote]]

Soon enough, Goldbaker settles down nearby -- both for the sake of their child and for the sake of profit. With the Broken Empire and the Nälkä nation of Kalmaktama on the rise, there's money to be made, especially with the war they saw was inevitable to come. Circe, meanwhile, grows up to be one mean witch. A witch that gathers secrets and builds their power until they too ascend to the same splendour as Goldbaker.

All of this changes when the bloodied Odysseus breaches the shores of Circe's island in his escape from the ashen Adytum.

There are many stories about what happened during the years the two had spent together. There's many who claim Circe had children with Odysseus,[[footnote]] A ridiculous notion. For all of his vices as a Mekhanite, Odysseus loved Penelope more than anything in this world -- it was perhaps his only redeemable quality. //-- Angevin// [[/footnote]] but there's many more who claim that, with their expertise in Names and a faerie heritage, Circe spent the years teaching Odysseus about the responsibilities of his new mantle. That, blessed with wisdom and foresight, they understood the responsibility that had been given to the Ithacan, when [[[laid-in-blood|he had been named Nobody]]].

Whatever the truth, this much is certain: when Odysseus //did// leave their island to face the dreaded Halyna Ieva on his way home, Circe did not remain there for many moons. Not long after, they came here to the Library, where they had remained till the day they vanished. 

**Approach:** Circe is a kind to those who show humility -- and merciless to those with pride deep in their hearts. Whatever you do, if you somehow still encounter them somewhere amidst these corridors, do __not__ challenge them, neither with your eyes nor your arms. They __will__ know if your intentions with them are impure, and, even in the Library, spending your life as a wild boar is far from ideal.[[footnote]] Unwritten Rule One of the Library: Don't fuck around if you don't want to find out. //-- Midnight// [[/footnote]]

[[/div]]

[[div class="section"]]
= **Observations & Stories**

[[div class="wanderers-note"]]
**Father Winter's Story:** The struggle of the fair folk against [[[the-queens-butterfly|the tyrant queen]]][[footnote]]Why does it always come down to what these two did or didn't do? //-- Angevin//[[/footnote]] is common knowledge, and a powerful sorcerer such as Circe wasn't alien to it -- it was the foundation upon which he built his prudence. I wasn't present for this, but I heard this tale from the mouth of the Aeaean himself, and this way I shall recount it here.

What we commonly know as Nobody is a being devoid of identity but nevertheless driven by a single purpose. In the Aeaean's own words, he once received a visit from one such being. It was lost, having filled the void of its soul with what Circe perceived to be the wrong purpose.[[footnote]]I would never consider returning to my wife and son to be the wrong purpose.//-- Angevin//[[/footnote]]^^,@< >@^^[[footnote]]That's of little concern to divine or quasi-divine beings, sadly -- especially those tied to cosmic-scale conflicts. //-- Midnight//[[/footnote]] Seeing this, he took their famed lyre and sang.

He sang of the Empire that existed before the dawn of man; of the twin empresses that held the entire world within their grasp; of the bloody wars that followed in their wake and of the inevitable failure of their rule. It is a song that lasted for a month and a day, driving the men to elation when the heyday of the empire was described and to desperation when its downfall was evoked. Apparently, a follower of Nobody even took his own life, jumping from the top of the palace. The last verses of the song revealed Nobody's reason for existing, the origin of his lack of name: the endless hunt against the only queen that still remains to this day; a pursuit to end the chance of tyranny once and for all. But, apparently, still Odysseus didn't acquiesce to his demands of a new purpose.

I wish he had sung that song to me, too. It would have been nice to remember those days.
[[/div]]

[[div class="wanderers-note"]]
**Joseph Thompson's Story:** Back in the day I was working for a secret taskforce of the US government[[footnote]]We're collecting stories from PENTAGRAM agents, now? -- //Midnight//[[/footnote]]^^,@< >@^^[[footnote]]Hey, every bit of information could be important. -- //Xenia//[[/footnote]] to explore certain spaces in the lookout for potentially disruptive agents and important anomalous resources. The how I got there isn't important, but I was doing my work on this ancient island whose owner had done the US wrong back in the 40s, when suddenly a song filled my head and I was knocked unconscious.

When I woke up, I was shorter, closer to the ground; my body was bloated and my legs were mangled, ending in some sort of stumps. My hair was gone, replaced by flaps of skin on the side of my head. Everything hurt, as if I was trapped inside a box of meat that choked me with the stench of shit and rotting flesh. I was a pig. And I felt sick.

The next few years are a haze. I remember squealing, screaming, sleeping, back to screaming, then, trotting around, eating garbage from the floor, vomiting, trotting around, eating more garbage, sleeping, screaming, sleeping, eating garbage, being chased by other farm animals, sleeping, screaming, eating garbage, squealing, sleeping, eating garbage and on and on for an eternity. [[footnote]]That seems excessively cruel. -- //Xenia//[[/footnote]]^^,@< >@^^[[footnote]] No empathy for fascist fucks. //-- Midnight//[[/footnote]]

I don't remember how I returned to my body. Those memories were lost in a sea of garbage and fear. Fifteen years had passed and I had been honorably discharged by the PENTAGRAM. My life has never been the same.

In my dreams I still see the white marble halls, my hooves hit the cold floor, trying to escape a song that now only exists in my head.

[[/div]]

[[div class="wanderers-note"]]
**Eulalia Barraquer's Story:** A long time ago I lost my sisters and in my pursuit of solace, I ended up heeding the call of Aeaea. It is a rare call, as only a select few witches hear it.

The Dread Goddess had long since divorced her domain from the material realm, and I got there through the twists and turns of the Library, arriving at an evergreen land where magic hung in the air and all manner of beasts grazed. There was also a sprawling palace, all in ancient Greek style of high marble columns and such. At the time I didn't find Circe herself, but when I remember the handful of days I spent there I recall that there was a presence guiding me to research a specific ritual.

I won't transcribe the details of that ritual here, but as far as my frail memory can tell, it allowed me to weaken the veil of the waking world and the worlds of the dead. Either that, or I suffered a bad trip. I was submerged in an endless black sea, swimming in one direction as many people swam in the other. I saw a friend I lost recently, still bitter about her death; I saw my mother who cursed and stomped at my sight; I saw a procession of the witches of Salem who wished me well; I saw old kings from Mesopotamia and old queens from Delhi; dead artists long forgotten -- an unending tide of normal men and women and closing it all, [[[fret-not-dear-heart|a bear wearing a hat]]].[[footnote]]What -- //Xenia//.[[/footnote]]^^,@< >@^^[[footnote]]I was relayed this information from a trustworthy source. I think it's in our best interest to believe what this says. Bear with hat and all. -- //Midnight//.[[/footnote]]

And at the very end, where the river of remembrance sprung forth, I saw them all -- a succession of Twenty-Four; the Nobodies, linked together in an inseparable bond, the Seventh among them standing next to the Dread Goddess. They stood close to each other but did not touch -- she merely guided him, it seemed, showed him to see the Others -- to see and reach their might and memories. To use their strength in his own fight against the Queen.

Then, as if on cue, she looked directly into my eyes, and I woke up.

I broke the surface and I was back in Aeaea, being soothed by lions, pigs and birds. I left shortly after.
[[/div]]

[[div class="wanderers-note"]]
**Adam Angevin's Story:** As with how these things go, I received this vision without any kind of warning or anything, during a completely unrelated entrail reading session. I was elbow deep inside of a sheep's carcass when I saw what I would later interpret to be ancient times. I saw myself inside another person's body, looking through a stranger's eyes at a face obscured by a bronze helmet. We were arguing something, and via the virtues of the strangers mind, I could understand it. 

"Oh sorceress," the helmed stranger hisses in a tired voice, "I fear this is a task impossible of me. It is far from my ilk." He does not speak of the deepest desire in his heart just yet. He does not want this, because he //wants// to go home. 

"I know," it is Circe he stands  before, and her face is knit in pity, "but it is a mantle that has been passed to you nonetheless." 

"How do I gift it to another? How do I rid myself of it? I grow weary of the will of the gods." Odysseus creaks back, and his body feels heavy and tired and metal itches against skin.

Circe's frown deepens. "You either succeed," she whispers, "or you die."

And the man whose eyes I watch from flinches, metal talons scrapping the stone as he takes a step back.

"I simply wish to see the lands of my home again," he at last whispers back, "my wife and son have waited long for my return. I cannot saddle the burden of another quest." And I feel his longing deep in his chest as though it is mine. A twisting, terrible ache that feels like decades worth of rot. 

"I know you do," Circe repeats her earlier words, and they walk across the throne room and approach him. "But this is something bigger than all of us. A war my ilk has raged for millennia."

"Do not speak to me of //war//," he snaps, barred teeth behind his helmet. "I know of //war//. I have seen its horrid fires rage, I have seen the slaughter of countless, and it haunts me. It //hunts// me across the seas, and I do not know how long it will be before it catches me." His voice begins to shake, midway through the words, and it prompts Circe to step back. 

"Then maybe I have misjudged," she says, watching him, "perhaps I have misjudged your role. Or your understanding."

And he narrows his eyes, waits for her to continue. 

"I can show you the gifts left by your predecessors." The sorceress walks a small circle around him, and he turns his head to follow. "Memories of a faceless past, and it will help you survive."

His head cocks to the side. "Survive?" 

"The remainder of your journey," she replies simply with a smile, "and then you will return to your home, King of Ithaca. Your wife, your son, go finally and reap the reward of your survival in such a tragedy -- and return to where your heart lay." And his heart does lay there, I can feel it burn against his mind. A heartache so strong that it feels like a blade has long been lodged in his chest, and festers there to this day. A blade that can only be pulled from tired flesh by the hands of a woman whose face he has not seen in decades, but whose face he remembers with painstaking clarity. 

Circe's words seem to surprise him, but they surprise him further when she closes the gap between them and leans in towards his face. Her eyes glimmers in the sunlight, bright and fiery,

//"And only then will you understand what is at stake."//

The vision fizzled out from there, grew  blurred at the edges and melted away. I felt as though I have only glimpsed through a looking glass, at something long past and the piece of something far larger -- but that is always the nature of these glimpses.

Though, I cannot truly tell if the blurriness was brought on by the disconnection of the strange vision, or the tears that had welled within the man's eyes. [[footnote]]It's always interesting to see cases of localized retroactive prescient divination. I do wonder, why did you see through the eyes of the less thaumaturgically powerful member of the exchange? It seems as if this was a targeted message from Circe herself, though. -- //Xenia//[[/footnote]]^^,@< >@^^[[footnote]]Or not. Sometimes magic works in mysterious ways. Such is the way of a sorceress. -- //Father Winter// [[/footnote]]
[[/div]]

[[/div]]

[[/div]]

[[div class="section"]]
= **Doubt**

There is certainly no doubt about Circe's skill or history -- what does remain suspect, however, is their inevitable fate. Century by century, Circe's presence became scarcer until -- with the turn of the new millennium -- they were no longer here. So where have they gone?[[footnote]] And Midnight, before you say anything: Circe knew the Library far too well to ever venture deep enough to get lost. It's a theory that falls apart the second you give it some thought. //-- Xenia// [[/footnote]]

Many are quick to claim that Circe's time had simply come. That, after almost three thousand years and with almost no believers left, the End[[footnote]] Circe and the [[[scp-6072|Reaper]]] had known each other throughout the centuries under many forms -- I feel like if they were to meet for one final time, we would have known. //-- Father Winter//[[/footnote]] had come for them too. But these people ignore one fact: Circe's longevity was never linked to their variable status as godhead, or any mortal processes at all. Circe's blood was of the Tuatha, their vigor only enhanced by the touch of divinity. Even after three millennia, that kind of strength does not simply run out[[footnote]] Just ask Father Winter. //-- Midnight//[[/footnote]] -- especially in a place like the Library.

Others, perhaps more observantly, have said that Circe had gone in search of the next bearer of the Nobody mantle. That, with the absence after the Twenty-Third so resounding, they had taken the matters into their own hands. But that wouldn't feel right, either: all the Nobodies -- at least those who do not find their purpose on their own -- inevitably make their way towards the Library. What purpose would there be in leaving the safest and most obvious haven in pursuit of a specter?[[footnote]] Especially since, as we now know, the [[[the-lands-nobody-returns-from|Twenty-Fourth had by then quite literally not yet emerged from beyond the grave]]]. //-- Midnight// [[/footnote]] The answer is, of course, that there would be none -- and Circe is far too old and experienced to chase the very ghosts they have taught many times before.

Here's what I[[footnote]] "I?" Who's the person writing this, again? //-- Angevin// [[/footnote]] think: Circe is of the wind, Circe is of the sea. We know they change with each passing of the wheel, unwilling to break beneath it as they come into century after century, each time born anew. Would it truly be ridiculous to say, given their Fae heritage and inconstant history, that they have simply moved on, once more?

Some of us still claim they hear a whisper of Circe's voice, when the hour is darkest and the corridors are emptiest; we //know// there are reports of their song, just barely audible, reaching the ears of the loneliness of patrons.

What if, just like their ancestors had done so long ago, they had merely become one with the world around them? What if they became that which they sought most, amidst all that knowledge of reincarnation and solitude: wisdom for all to claim and see?

Because how can we win the War for the world, if we do not know we are a part of it?

[[/div]]

[[footnoteblock title=""]]
~~~~
[[/div]]
[[/==]]

@@ @@
@@ @@

[[include :scp-wiki:component:earthworm
| first=false | last=false | hub=yes
| previous-url=/my-name-is-no-one | previous-title=My Name Is No-One
| next-url=/empty-trail | next-title=Empty Trail
| hub-url=/nobody-dies-at-dawn-hub | hub-title=Nobody Dies At Dawn
]]

-----

[[=]]
[[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box
|author=Dino--Draws, Diogene_s, and Ralliston]]
=====
> **Filename:** circe.jpg
> **Name:** Circe by Wright Barker (1889).jpg
> **Author:** Wright Barker
> **License:** Public Domain
> **Source Link:** [https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Circe_by_Wright_Barker_(1889).jpg Wikimedia Commons]
=====
[[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box-end]]
[[/=]]

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