𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳

They don't even have the dignity of their own space.

A painted frown doesn't carry much sympathy next to that. She's sure that it means it genuinely, but that doesn't matter if no action is being taken. "Life ravages us all," She echoes. "And we have to choose to be good to people anyway."

IT  FROWNS  only  in  so  much  as  the  mask’s  painted  visage  continues  to  dip  lower  and  lower.  dionysus’  posture  hunches  in  tandem.  how  rude  these  mortals  are,  but  how  woefully  correct,  too.  is  there  not  a  shred  of  sympathy  for  the  divine  within  this  woman  ??  it  supposes  not.  rightfully,  of  course.  how  hard  it  must  be  to  possess  sympathy  for  the  boot  which  crushes  all  underfoot.  how  brave  a  choice  it  is  to  try.  

❝  attempts  are  oft  made,  at  least  on  my  behalf.  lo,  my  offspring  are  forever  nurtured.  carefully  watched.  loved  as  almighty  zeus  did  lovest  me.  ❞    

it  offers  them  guidance  where  none  ought  to  be,  protection  with  brandished  vines  and  fangs.  how  possessive  it  is  of  its  children.  yet,  where  perhaps  ire  ought  to  be  from  the  notion  that  the  gods  have  not  tried,  there  is  instead  a  quiet  and  solemn  understanding.  yes,  yes,  dionysus  has  tried.  but  what  of  ares?  aphrodite?  does  athena  ever  appear  for  holiday  visits?  does  she,  in  all  her  great  wisdom,  remember  their  birthdays  still?

it  hops  down  from  the  counter.  the  motion  makes  little  sound  aside  from  the  ruffling  of  fabric.

❝  idle  hands  make  for  trouble;  may  i  aid  thee  in  cooking  ??  is  there  anything  else  to  make  ??  ❞  

ㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤThe DIVINE, it would so seem, WERE TERRIBLY SENSITIVE ! ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤAge, in their own mind, had been a TRIFLE, o'er the CENTURY MARK.

Eyes, 'pon it, merely blink. The severity of offense, had been MORE than they'd merely thought ── for reference made, had been less to appearances, and more, then, to their CHRONOLOGICAL EXISTENCE. Hands raise, open palmed, as their brow twists.

❝ My apologies ; You do not ... APPEAR as a cadaver, or anything remotely close ; merely, that the eras of the Greeks and Romans have long passed ... In this era, mankind has a ... a different standard for those on the stage. ❞

Words, picked and collected with great care, as to avoid further insult 'pon its' presence. Arms lower, with ample caution. It did not appear as the type to STRIKE unwarranted, but the passages and tales of WRATHFUL GODS, from their childhood, does not go without recollection.

❝ PERFORMANCE and the artistry with it has evolved. Plays and the tragedies that birthed them, are seldom made now in the way they were, back then. Women and the genderless have more of a place in the industry. IT'S MERELY DIFFERENT. ❞

To explain every minute, microscopic detail was something of a chore ; even to it, which ── in accordance with mythos, presumed now, true ── resided over artistry in this vein. They do their best to GROUND, refresh patience. Performance left them exhausted and, admittedly, starved. Per routine, they ought to be PROWLING the streets by now, fetching their next meal.

PERFORMANCE HAS EVOLVED! lo,  so  sayeth  the  patron  saint  of  strange  dances  and  platinum  hair  !!  so  sayeth  the  greatest  of  apollo’s  would-be  priests,  and  what  a  priest  they  would  be  !!  oh,  would  that  these  were  the  ancient  days,  the  familiar  days,  dionysus  would  make  a  treat  of  the  other.  offer  them  up  unto  the  sun,  see  what  apollo  had  to  say  !!  alas,  the  sun  has  no  interest  in  mortal  affairs  now  -  not  those  which  draw  dionysus’  attention,  anyhow.  perhaps  apollo  did  indeed  learn,  all  those  blasted  years  ago,  the  banality  oft  ushered  in  by  his  half-sibling’s  presence.  

dionysus  appears  to  grow,  though  the  surge  is  more  so  out  of  a  straightened  posture  than  any  mystical  means.  not  once  does  it  interrupt  the  performer’s  explanation,  nor  does  its  hands  raise  to  either  strike  or  usher  in  fear.  no,  dionysus  straightens  because  such  is  a  sign  of  attempted  understanding  as  much  as  if  is  for  hostility.  the  mask’s  expression  becomes  an  unintelligible  roreshach  just  as  easily  confused  for  rage  as  it  could  be  for  sorrow  as  it  could  be  for  joy.  

❝  a  difference  in  standards  does  disappointment  make  in  the  one  who  set  them…  ❞

dionysus  grumbles  the  objection  under  its  breath.  its  head  cranes  from  peering  at  the  performer  to  the  rest  of  the  venue,  as  if  searching  for  something,  then  back  to  the  performer.  beads  of  uncomfortable  green  bore  into  them.

❝  good,  then,  for  women  and  those  who  ought  find  solace  beyond  the  brick  walls  of  society’s  so-called  norms.  thou  will…  forgive  such  sharp  tempers.  you  will  find  my  reaction,  however  brief,  far  kinder  than  that  of  my  kin;  remember  thy  words,  never  speak  them  unto  my  elders.  ❞

it  steps  closer,  curious  now.  moods  change  with  the  breeze  for  this  god.  

❝  from  what  region,  then,  do  you  hail  ??  far  be  it  from  my  father’s  teachings  to  assume,  despite  what  the  legends  and  their  like  would  claim.  ❞

She's not sure yet how she feels about what this creature-- deity-- is saying. The creaking and stretching and bending and--

Of course, she's made her home in enough stories to know how to be polite. A changeling is a changeling no matter where it comes from. Moira leans across her desk with as blank an expression as she can manage, her hair falling like a curtain across the wood.

BE  THERE  NO  HESITATION from  them  when  it  comes  to  matters  of  wisdom.  how  blissfully  damned  the  terrible  frenzy  of  dionysus  is  when  it  comes  to  trying  to  find  things.  herein  lays  the  cruelty  of  hera’s  once-afflicted  now-constant  madness:  even  when  mastered,  even  when  dionysus  has  since  become  synonymous  with  mania  itself,  there  is  no  true  relief  from  wanting  the  impossible.  sometimes  the  impossible  is  a  coherent  thought  which  slips  through  its  fingers  like  oil,  leaving  only  black  smudges  in  its  wake;  sometimes,  like  right  now,  the  impossible  is  instead  a  matter  of  wanting  to  find  something  but  not  knowing  what.  

they  drum  their  fingers  ‘gainst  the  book  spines  and  seem  to  consider  the  bookkeepers  words  rather  carefully.  there’s  a  deceptive  attentiveness  to  the  way  dionysus  regards  her:  she  has  the  eye  of  a  god,  certainly,  but  as  a  person  or  as  a  passing  pet  has  yet  to  be  known.  a  shame,  at  times,  that  its  perception  of  mortal  lives  would  become  so  terribly  jilted.  

❝  ah,  i  am  indeed.  this  search,  however,  has  been  as  fruitless  as  that  vast  sahara;  what  i  seek,  i  know  not.  only  that  these  hands  o’  mine  do  seek  turning  pages,  papercuts,  all  the  joys  held  within  this  haven  of  yours.  i’ve  a  mind  to  ask,  wisened  bookkeeper.  spill  unto  me  thy  recommendations,  tales  of  splendor  !!  i  am,  as  those  of  a  younger  sort  may  say…  bored.  ❞

› prompts from ann patchett's novel the dutch house (2019). feel free to tweak as you see fit.

“i see the past as it actually was.”

“we overlay the present onto the past.”

“we had made a fetish out of our misfortune, fallen in love with it.”

“the point wasn’t whether or not i liked it.”

“the point was it had to be done.”

“do you think it’s possible to ever see the past as it actually was?”

“disappointment comes from expectation.”

“thinking about the past impeded my efforts to be decent in the present.”

“we were all so young, you know.”

“our childhood was a fire.”

“don't expect that anyone will do you the favor of listening if you don't trouble yourself to use your voice.”

“you gotta be smart, have a plan, pay attention to what's going on around you.”

“it’s like you don’t want to be dislodged from your suffering.”

“you don't have to like your work to be good at it.”

“don’t let yourself get upset.”

“it cost me nothing.”

“we didn’t like it but we survived it.”

“you owe me that.”

“there is a finite amount of time.”

“what kind of person leaves their kids?"

“do not put your face in the fucking fire.”

“even in my own house i had no idea what was going on.”

“i was asleep to the world.”

“no anger could survive this, at least no anger i'd ever had.”

“even the stupidest ideas have resonance once they’ve happened.”

“i gave up caring where i lived a long time ago.”

“there was no comfort in me.”

“i would have found you eventually.”

“things changed again after that.”

“i'm just telling you it's unsettling.”

“i haven’t been cruel, believe me.”

his   body   fights   the   concoction   of   emotions   -   the   foremost   being   a   symphony   of   trepidation   and   aversion.   there's   a   swirling   of   guilt   in   his   eyes   despite   the   negativity   his   body   forces   'pon   him;   percy   * knows   that   the   god   before   him   probably   doesn't   mean   it   -   there   is   only   so   much   control   the   gods   have   over   themselves,   percy   had   seen   it   firsthand.   he   can   hear   his   mother's   * scalding   hot   voice   in   his   head,   grilling   into   the   teenager   about   being   polite   -   it   wasn't   every   day   that   one   of   his   divine   family   members   were   so   polite.

percy   decides   then   and   there   that   despite   its   unnerving   nature,   * this   dionysus   ranks   about   third   on   their   "favorite   gods   of   the   weird   family",   right   behind   their   dad   and   hestia.   he's   sure   it   would   understand   -   * nobody   could   fault   percy   for   liking   hestia.   she   was   just   *that   cool.

❝ you   like   ...   really   don't   need   to   apologize.   it's   not   like   you   can   * control   it,   and   it's   honestly   really   rude   of   me   to   even   cringe   at   it.   i'm   sorry,   man   -   that's   really   * shitty   of   me   to   do. ❞

he's   definitely   * not   the   first   person   to   point   this   out.   to   percy's   horror   ( and   own   chagrin ),   he   also   realizes   that   he   definitely   * won't   be   the   last   person   either.   he   feels   himself   blanch   in   the   face,   struck   with   the   painful   possibility   that   if   he   * had   accepted   his   own   divinity   a   couple   months   ago,   there   was   a   possibility   that   percy   * himself   would've   been   changed   in   a   way   that   lacked   in   complete   autonomy.

he   counts   his   lucky   stars   again   -   thank   whatever   audacity   percy   had   in   him   had   sent   him   down   the   path   of   outright   telling   zeus   * no,   and   instead   holding   the   king   of   the   * gods   accountable   for   being   a   shithead.   yeah   -   way   to   go   percy.   he'll   change   topics.

AGONY.  AGONY! this  is  agony  outright!  cruel  are  the  fates  who  deemed  its  mother  worthy  to  die  by  hera’s  trickery,  for  in  their  wake  sat  horror  amongst  her  ashes.  though  few  would  ever  deign  to  call  the  olympian  patriarch  kind,  dionysus  knows  zeus  not  as  argumentative  or  overlord,  but  as  father;  the  man  meant  no  ill-intention  to  his  son,  and  oft  kept  the  sky  clear  of  clouds  above  dionysus’  nursing  place  so  that  the  youngest  of  the  olympians  could  watch  the  twinkling  lights.  zeus  did  not  recoil  at  the  sight  of  his  child,  but  mortals  do  not  share  its  father’s  bravery  -  and  all  are  better  off  for  it.

a  mortal  with  the  audacity  of  zeus,  dionysus  reckons,  would  be  quite  a  problem  indeed.  thankfully,  perseus  doesn’t  appear  to  be  such  a  soul.  the  apology  is  accepted  with  a  bobbing  nod  and  a  chorus  of  canned  laughter  softly  echoing  from  behind  its  mask.  

❝  you  need  not  apologize,  cousin-mine.  all  is  well,  and  no  offense  has  been  performed  by  either  side.  already  thee  are  more  personable  than  heracles,  of  that  with  certainty  i  say.  ❞

there’s  a  chuckle,  and  it  turns  the  treat  over  in  its  hands  once  more.  carefully,  dionysus  breaks  a  piece  of  it  off  with  a  mechanical  digit,  carefully  balancing  the  crumb  on  the  tip  of  its  finger.  up  and  under  the  mask  it  goes,  careful  not  to  displace  the  bit  of  protection  mortals  have  from  its  true  form.  a  pleased  thrum  that  sits  somewhere  between  a  human  hum,  a  car  engine  starting  up,  and  a  purring  leopard  sails  out  from  the  mask.  

❝  danae  is  skilled,  yes  !!  do  burn  these  in  the  future  as  an  offering;  i  will  eagerly  distribute  them  amongst  the  divines,  where  they  ought  to  be..  and  maybe  keep  a  few  unto  myself.  has’t  thou  always  had  blue  food  a  waiting,  cousin  ??  ❞

ㅤ Serenity remains, at first ; yet, their inverse, retains something of SURPRISE. They had known, always, that VAMPYRIC - KIND, had not been the only non-human species to inhabit the planet, true. The world was too VAST, for evolution to stall, however this being ─ to their distaste ─ came from 'pon HIGH. There is something akin to a BARK of laughter, that is then pressed into the back of their hand. A bleat, of nervousness uncontrolled.

Threat is veiled, thin, and they heed it well, their head canting. Were it not for SOURED EXCHANGE, they'd find themselves in awe, rather than having hackles raised in DEFENSE.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ❝ I believe you fine, darling. I'm not the standard individual ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤwho has a reason to argue against what I see as plain as starlight. ❞

There is, in quiet, recollection of their studies in their youth. Tales of GODS AND MONSTERS, of lands west, in eras long ago. They'd always regarded them as just that, tales ; but there was, in a perverse fashion, TRUTH TO NEAR EVERY STORY. They do their best to recall what nomenclature would best FIT this visitor ; aroma, of wine, and a taste for THEATRICS, left only two names behind.

❝ ... Forgive my harshness. I don't quite enjoy unasked for criticism, especially when one of your age, does not know this life. What goes into it, and what it takes from you. THINGS HAVE CHANGED, since your era ; whichever you prefer to claim as your own. ❞

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤDIONYSUS. BACCHUS. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤHis relevancy had lasted long.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤThey gesture to empty arena.

AND  THE  YOUTH  WOULD  CLAIM to  know.  well,  assumed  youth.  dionysus  is  no  fool;  any  normal  mortal,  upon  witnessing  its  descent,  would  scurry  like  a  rat  (  and  some  part  of  it,  that  maddened  bastard  which  hera  did  make  unto  frenzy’s  personification,  would  delight  in  such  a  vision  ).  and  yet  here  the  performer  stands,  heretofore  unbothered.  mechanical  joints  and  flesh-and-bone  click-clack-click  as  the  frankenstein’d  god  regards  them.

it  cares  not  for  whatever  title  the  youth  holds  claim  to,  whatever  throne  they  sit  upon  or  have  thusly  rejected.  its  intrigue  and  offense  are  instead  drawn  in  equal  measure,  beyond  anything  else,  to  the  mention  of  its  age.

❝    i  would  beg  for  thy’s  pardon,  but  i’ve  no  want  for  it. enlighten  me,  o’  performer  mighty,  one  of  my  age  ??    ❞

its  voice  carries  the  youthfulness  of  the  early  twenties,  but  the  offense  of  a  ninety  year  old  who  has  been  wrongfully  assumed  a  corpse.  it  waves  its  hand  to  the  stands,  dismissive,  

❝  pay  the  absence  of  maddened  maidens  no  mind,  and  render  the  specters  of  satyrs,  whomst  i  shall  note  take  great  offense  to  being  known  merely  by  their  lower  halves,  but  as  ghosts  in  thy  mind  !!  i  ask  of  thee  -  my  age  ??  does  thou  need  glasses  ??  aids  upon  those  most  pale  and  fair  ears  ??  does  age  bleed  into  this  presentation  mine,  am  i  but  the  younger  sibling  of  the  moon  in  years  ??  enlighten  me  !!  ❞

the  fabric  ‘round  it  ruffles  like  angry  feathers.  

❝  i  shall  happily  rescind  my  sharper  words,  which  were  uttered  rightfully  to  such  a  performance,  but  only  upon  an  explanation  most  blessed  finally  reaching  my  youthful  senses.  ❞

LIONS  AND  JAGUARS  AND  LEOPARDS, oh  my  !!  would  that  dionysus  traveled  with  its  kindred  animals,  but  no  such  beast  emerged  from  its  shadow  to  greet  artaxes  and  hypatia.  dionysus  made  up  for  this  with  a  polite  wave  to  both  beasts,  albeit  a  slightly  unnerving  one:  the  hand  creaked  with  the  motion  and,  quietly,  dionysus  cursed  the  unpredictability  of  its  body  under  its  breath.  

rhea’s  greeting  and  pleasant  demeanor,  however,  killed  whatever  sour  mood  was  about  to  start  up.  dionysus  straightened  at  being  addressed  properly,  and  it  wished  its  mask  could  show  the  extent  of  its  relief  at  the  way  she  said  dear  one.  always  a  favorite,  the  anxiety  bubbling  in  its  chest  over  meeting  its  grandmother  was  quickly  being  both  dismissed  and  mentally  noted  as  foolish.  

❝  well  !!  quite  a  bit,  as  of  late,  plagues  my  mind.  no  madness,  not  as  of  a  few  days  prior,  but  more  so…  questions  of  my  fairest  father’s  youth,  and  of  thou’s  own.  many  speak  of  the  titanomachy,  and  i’ve  no  want  to  dismiss  such  a  great  and  terrible  time  for  one  must  not  remember  it  as  anything  but  !!  in  turn,  my  interest  sits  in  the  mundane.  i  would  like  to  know,  then,  of  she  who  could  bid  time  to  do  most  anything  -  if  you’ve  a  want  to  speak  of  your  story,  that  is.  ❞

❝ trick question, i would prefer not to be known at all. i doubt either you or your fellow gods could understand the luxury of anonymity, but you all should really try it sometime.❞ of course, perhaps anonymity is stifling when you’re a literal divine being with some particular power of patronage. when aurelia feels herself known by people, she feels perceived in a way that’s more disconcerting. the icy temperament rarely lands well when finally understood.

the gods, on the other hand, are both known and adored. no doubt there’s a giddy headiness that comes with being worshipped.

a sulky silence falls over khione’s daughter as she weighs the possibility of staging an escape or successfully redirecting the god’s attention onto another passerby. she’s sure there’s plenty of demigods who would be positively thrilled to grab a drink with a god but she’s not one of them! not to mention that she’d been on her way back to her apartment and already imagining the contentment of cozying up on the couch in front of her fireplace with a mug of spiked hot chocolate and a good book.

playing tour guide for a god is the very antithesis of the future she’d silently mapped out for herself, but to argue would probably only waste time since dionysus clearly isn’t the type to catch a hint. or is the god being willfully oblivious? either way, she’s trapped.

best case scenario, she can show him rne way and then make herself scarce. ❝ i’ll show you the way, but you better keep up. ❞ and then without waiting for his response, she’s briskly turning down the corner and reluctantly trudging away from her apartment.

❝ i really thought the whole point of being a god was being able to escape the mundane and yet here you are roaming the streets of new york city.❞

and of all the places where one can indulge in a little bit of chaos, why does the god have to choose her little corner of the city?

❝ fyi, i don’t think i should suffer any divine negative karma if this was place doesn’t live up to your standards.❞ she goes out so rarely that she’s entirely cognizant of the fact that she’s fairly simplistic in her tastes when it comes to places for a fun night out. as long as the place has booze and a decent seating situation, it’s good enough for her.

STEPS  LIKE  HOOVES  beneath  its  garb:  clack-clack-clack.  dionysus  has  schrodinger’s  body  ‘neath  all  the  fabric:  perhaps  it  is  human,  perhaps  it  is  not.  as  typhon  was  upon  manhattan  once,  the  nature  of  its  form  confounds  as  often  as  it  pleases.  sometimes  it  has  a  metal  body,  sometimes  all  is  flesh.  the  proportions  remain  steady,  but  the  location  of  plates  or  divinity  vary  by  the  day.  monday  its  right  hand  will  be  metal  and  a  patch  of  skin  will  make  itself  known  on  its  back;  tuesday  its  right  hand  will  be  flesh  and  its  back  will  be  dotted  in  metal  instead.  

how could one explain to his half-brother that he had always wished to be seen as something more than mere strength ? would that not sound ungrateful ? to resent the very gift he had been born with, the thing that defined him in the eyes of both gods and mortals alike. yet ... it was the truth.

at his core, he was still hafl human. not entirely divine, not entirely mortal. suspended somewhere in between, belonging fully to neither world. where did he belong, in the end ? that was a questiong hercules had chased for centuries. trying to understand it, to see it, to carve it out for himself. but he had never found the answer.

to hear mortals chant his name the way they did for the others gods only reminded him that, no matter how hard he fought for it, they would never truly see him as one of them. not as a man. not as someone who could sit among them without being placed on a pedestal. no matter how much he wanted it.

❝ it's not that which bothers me, what you have done. no. ❞ he admitted only half of it. it did not anger him that dionysus used his wine to entertain the crowd; he had seen such things countless times before. revelry, praise, intoxicated admiration. that was his brother's domain. what unsettled him was something far quieter.

❝ i don't want to be chanted about like the other gods, brother ... ❞ his eyes lifted to meet dionysus. there was no accusation in them, no true disapproval. he knew dionysus had not acted out of cruelty. perhaps even out of affection. ❝ even if it may pass ... one might not agree. a fight might happen. people might get hurt. ❞ his jaw tightened slightly. ❝ you never truly know what your wine might do to a mortal's head. ❞

RELIEF! sweet  and  divine,  thank  father  that  its  attempt  at  revelry  was  not  the  cause  of  its  half-brother’s  ire.  dionysus  relaxed,  the  great  furls  of  its  festival-fabric  settling  on  the  ground  and  covering  how  dead  plants  swarmed  ‘round  its  heels.  the  mask  twisted  itself  once  more  into  a  widened  grin  and,  perhaps  feeling  emboldened  by  the  unknowing  half-admission  that  the  party  did  not  disturb  heracles,  begun  its  prancing  again.  ‘round  and  ‘round  heracles  it  went,  a  hop  to  its  gait.  

❝    ah,  what  great  weight  has  lifted  from  these  shoulders  mine  !!  in  earnest  i  must  admit,  i  feared  thy  had  forgotten  how  to  partake  in  moments  away  from  conflict—❞

some  several  hundred  years  from  then,  a  record  would  scratch.  perhaps  apollo  had  already  made  such  a  disc,  black  and  made  whole  by  recorded  ballads,  and  that  indeed  scratched.  all  the  same,  irregardless,  dionysus’  stride  came  to  an  abrupt  halt  at  the  admission  that  he  did  not  wish  for  his  tales  to  be  chanted.  no,  for  praise  of  his  strength  to  have  left  the  frenzied  fervored  mortal  lips.  

his  eyes  lifted  to  meet  dionysus’  and  such  connection  was  swiftly  denied.  dionysus  tore  his  eyes  away  from  his  brother,  emerald  dots  flicking  between  flower  and  flower.  it  suddenly  became  remarkably  intrigued  in  the  way  its  sleeves  fell  and,  silently,  dionysus  took  to  fretting  the  fabric  between  his  hands.  after  a  small  eternity,  the  small  dots  of  emerald  behind  its  mask  return  to  its  half-brother.  

❝  why  ??  thy  name  is  gold,  o’  brother  mine,  i  thought  thy  would  be  made  happy  with  such  celebration.  ❞

once  more,  dionysus  began  moving,  but  slower.  it  was  a  habit  well  known  by  olympus:  the  youngest  of  zeus’  brood  paced  like  an  animal  when  perplexed.  

❝  is  fighting  not  worship  to  ares  ??  if  one  gets  hurt,  does  that  not  let  them  seek  apollo’s  blessed  guidance,  let  them  practice  their  own  talents  ??  yes,  such  things  may  happen  !!  do  not  mistake  me  as  fond  for  them,  but  no  death  shall  occur,  of  this  i  am  certain  !!  is  it  not  the  most  mortal  thing,  gaining  scars  and  living  to  speak  of  them  ‘round  fairest  Hestia’s  hearth  ??  ❞

Sally takes a deep breath to ground herself and dries her hands on the kitchen towel. No, there's no need to be so defensive. This is hardly the first person who's come into her home with judgement.

IT  NODS  IN  IMMEDIATE understanding.  mortal  once,  divine  twice-over,  a  parent  in  its  own  right,  dionysus  understands  her  note  about  her  son  without  missing  a  beat.  the  fabric  ruffles  as  its  gentle  kicking  from  its  perch  continues,  dots  of  green  behind  its  mask  watching  her  drying  her  hands.  funny,  really:  the  world  has  changed  plenty,  but  towels  always  look  the  same.  

❝  such  is  the  truth;  all  youth  deserve,  in  some  fashion  grand  or  minor,  solace.  alas,  this  family  mine  does  not  do  well  with  lacking  activity,  nor  do  we  possess…  wiser  means  to  maintain  peace.  would  that  i  were  in  charge  of  affairs:  know  this  in  earnest,  no  child  would  be  without  love,  were  i  the  head  of  such  matters.  ❞

perhaps  they  would  have  an  excess  of  it  instead.  the  divine  cannot  bare  their  hearts  to  mortals,  such  would  kill  them,  but  dionysus  reckons  that  a  few  deaths  from  love  is  an  infinitely  better  outcome  than  a  dozen  from  war.  let  their  children  glimpse  their  parents  as  they  are.  grant  them  a  single  moment  of  truth.  or  don’t,  and  let  them  live  longer  lives  bittered  by  godly  absences.  

the  mask  paints  itself  into  a  deep  and  somber  frown.  

❝  alas,  the  world  is  in  equal  parts  starved   for  cruelty  and  for love. this  hungry  beast,  life,  ravages  us  all.  ❞

but there is one thing to say - aside from a well meant thank you - and that is: "there's a lot that i've yet to figure out - there's a lot i've yet to fix---" what happened to her sister, lamia, is one such thing. "---but what i have figured out..." and here is her voice, quiet, soft, gentle, sincere. "...is that you often, mhm, how do i put it? you point me in the direction of others. which is fair, i swear. and i have prayed to both of the deities you mentioned. but there is more than one way to be intelligent, is there not? i would hope you are not... self-effacing. i would hope you are not erasing yourself from the equation. you are also an intelligent being. and even though our magic is different, that does not mean that there's nothing you can teach me. time well spent is never wasted."

IT  SEEMS  TO  PONDER  her  words,  though  only  in  so  much  as  such  entertains  itself.  like  a  scholar  who  cares  more  so  for  the  hands-on  learning  than  the  academic,  dionysus  appears  more  inclined  to  understand  things  by  reaching  out  and  strangling  them  between  creaking  hands.  it  cannot  do  this  to  demigods,  so  it  must  settle  on  an  understanding  that  is  well-distanced  and  safe  for  both  parties.  this  is  a  tragedy  for  many  reasons.  it  will  not  give  any  of  them  aloud.  

the  notion  that  it  is  self-effacing,  however,  causes  it  to  throw  its  head  back  in  laughter  that  sounds  more  like  a  chorus  than  a  single  person.  it  echoes  in  the  air  long  after  the  shaking  of  its  shoulders  subsidies.  

❝  fear  not,  my  worth  is  well  known  unto  myself;  i  am,  after  all,  the  most  beloved  of  zeus  !!  a  fool  would  not  a  favorite  son  make,  demigoddess.  ❞    

it  waves  its  hand,  righting  its  head  and  regarding  her  once  more.  it  does  not  eat  the  treat,  preferring  to  keep  it  held  in  one  hand.  the  tip  of  its  finger  dips  into  the  frosting  and,  for  a  beat,  dionysus  seems  to  consider  something.  then  the  digit  goes  up  and  under  the  mask - careful not to lift it - and,  when  it  reappears,  is  perfectly  clean.  

❝  so  you  seek  guidance.  far  be  it  from  me  to  turn  ‘way  such  a  curious  self.  enlighten  me  then,  demigoddess,  what  do  you  seek  to  gain  ??  what  bothers  thee  so  greatly  that  this  company  is  not  shunned  ??  what  confounds  you  so  greatly  that  even  o’  fairest  pallas  cannot  guide  thee  ??  ❞    

it  pauses,  and  its  head  cants  to  the  side  with  a  slow  but  stuttering  motion,  like  a  clock  hand  that  refuses  to  settle.

❝  is  this…  perhaps,  a  matter  of  the  heart  ??  ❞

it’s  a  joke,  and  the  rapid  shift  of  the  mask  to  manic  joy  is  enough  to  indicate  as  much.