favourite faces for favourite mythic ladies: Circe with Eva Green
Like the falcon, Circe twists and soars, unmatchable, uncatchable, words turning to spells as they glide past mulberry lips. The loveliest of all immortals, that daughter of sun and sea, that sister to a monster's mother.
The night breeze touches her skin as Circe stands in the doorway of her palace, the dark forest laid out before her. She can hear a pig scuffling in the underbrush and considers supper. Somewhere behind, in another room, one of her girls laughs and the sound echoes against the high walls before dying, being swallowed by the murmur of voices just quiet enough to be unclear.
Circe knows that the moment she enters the room, those bright and beautiful young creatures will attend to her, all impossibly fair, lingering on the cusp of womanhood. Circe is in love with each and every one of them. It cuts out a piece of her heart when they have to be punished or destroyed.
At her words they collect their bows and spears and knives and go forth to hunt. They've slipped free of their peplos - so much easier to move through the forest without clothes - and a few are laughing still. Most of them are too young to have met the pigs when they pretended to be human beings, and those that remember have been with their mistress too long to mind. Circe knows best, and no one cooks a better ham.
