ft.â aphrcdciacâ
worries plagued dionysos not in the same way that it did most. worry was made for those chained by absurdly intangible concepts that had no place in the realm of the living, let alone in the realm of the divine. it was not something made for them, those with ichor running through their veins and colouring their essences. dionysos was not chained to anythingâhe was the great liberator, the great Briseus who prevailed over the ailments that shackled mere mortals, the twice-born who could not be contained even by the spirt of death itself. t'was not worry that brought dionysos over to apolloâs home, he would make that distinction clear, it was /concern/ and nothing more.
the air whispered of a familiarity that tugged dionysos closer and closer to the sun godâyour beloved freedom would be found here, liberation prevails once more. but such was not typically found within the radius of his radiant kin; apollo was the order to his chaos, the rationality to his penchant for the lack thereof, the logical mind to his instinctual body.
and dionysos was hit with the vague inkling that such contrasts would be lost to them today.
the wine god was sharply aware of the endearing address thrown his wayâhis brother was rarely this sweet with him, his words like honey and his voice a choir, not like this. it did little to dissuade the persistent nag deep in his gut that something was amiss. the curtains would soon unveil themselves to reveal the stage all prepped and ready, but for now the god of theatre must play the intellect and investigate who was to be the playwright, and who the actor.
â dearest phoebus, â dionysos began with the epithet that so rightfully adorned his radiant brother, affection brimming in every syllable and no ounce of falseness to be found. let it be known that dionysosâ praises more often than not carried with it a high degree of integrity. â oh, how you glow and bring colour to us all. but surely, you are mistaking me for another? if it is affairs of the heart and talks of love that you wish to spin into intricate poems, then surely aphrodite would be a better companion than i. â
aphroditeâs name was a sour fruit on his tongue. he thought what he nurtured within himself for her was love, he decorated it with flowers and harvested the sweetness of their nectar. he grew strawberries for her and plucked them ripe and freshâshe crushed them with her feet and made them into jam for her war god lover. dionysos thought he could write epic poems about the curve of her hips or the bow of her lips but no, the sentiment that he nursed for the goddess of beauty was not love. not if love was what always plagued apollo silly and rendered him a simpleton.
dionysos took a seat beside apollo and straddled the bench, his arms finding home around the other deityâs torso and his chest pressed flush against apolloâs back. hands on bare flesh, dionysos instantly felt the hum of what could be and it thrummed underneath his own skinâit tickled and it buzzed and it cried for its master. the makings of what his cult would so reverently indulge themselves in were making themselves comfortable within his typically sane brother; though that may be cause for alarm, dionysos took to detachment and composure.
â however, i am curious to hear more of this nymph that has enchanted you so. you seem so adamant on rejecting my advances, as enrapturing as i am, and you so easily cast me aside! â dramatics were a specialty of the theatrical godâs and it did well to mask the concern that had yet to be persuaded into retreating to the shadows. heâd play the part of a jealous lover pining for their beloved if it coaxed out what he needed to hear.
dionysos rested his cheek onto apolloâs shoulder, his head angled so that his lips were a breath away from the silk threads of gold that weaved down and pressed against his bare chest. quietly, gently, he murmured. â tell me more, beloved sol, i wish to understand what it is that now ailsâ no, i want to see what it is that you see, feel what it is that you feel. â
there was no deity that welcomed unbounded expression more than him; dionysos was the ritous god, the god of freedom, the god of reticence dispeling. but this was a different sort not under his charge, never under his charge.
love was a shackle to the heart, a chain to the soul. love was not liberating.
Aphrodite. Had he been in his right mind, he wouldâve questioned the mention of her name by Dionysos. Tâwas a sour history shared between the two of them â  as sour as bad wine; and what greater insult would it be to the God of winemaking himself? But he was not in his right mind. He hadnât been in his right mind for quiet a while now. Something had taken hold of him, something wicked, something bewitching.Â
Dionysos had fell for Aphrodite but for Apollo it had been Hekate. He had always loved those women shrouded in mystery and witchcraft. Their beguiling dark eyes, their peculiar charm. How funny that the God of prophecy should fall in love time and again for those inexplicable things, for those he couldnât make sense of. They ticked his curiosity, they invoked inside him something that made him feel alive, challenged him intellectually, and OHÂ did he loved it so.
Aphrodite. Not even the mention of the Goddess of beauty and love, and all that Apollo seemed to found himself entrapped in could shake himself out of the dream-like state he had fallen into. His face was painted with ten shades of love, each a deeper than the color before it, and his heart â oh his heart. It was in an ever dreadful state, he felt as if there were flowers blooming inside him, its vines puncturing into his flesh and taking roots inside him. Each passing second, it grew stronger, stemmed itself deeper, until he could feel it in his very core. This ardent adoration that turned him into nothing but a simple agent of love, only capable of acting on it, as if a puppet on a string.
Well, should he be a puppet, then let him be one ! Let him be played around, as long as heâd get his happy end, as long as he could profess his affections and press his whispers of tenderness into the the naiad.
She was a shade of blue, he remembered, with skin as cool as dewdrops just as he was hot as the scorching sun. He years to touch her, to feel her chill on his skin â oh love let her invigorate him, let her revive once again the love that had once been stomped over and over again
With her, he was sure that it would work. With her, he was sure that he would once again let the seeds of love be planted inside him and conquer him. For he was a slave for love, and always had been.
He felt Dionysosâs chest against him and leaned back, resting his head on the otherâs shoulder. He was WARM just as Apollo was. He frowned then, ever so slightly, as he was reminded of her absence. The beautiful Daphne was not a warm being, she was cold, looked at him with eyes so gentle, they looked as if they were about to melt. Eyes so wet his parched soul screamed for her the moment his eyes fell upon her willowy figure.
A sigh yet escaped his lips, but this time, it was through a smile. The same lovesick smile as always, the ones heâd always worn whenever love had captured him, held his neck tightly in its leash. When he spoke again his voice was thick with affection, âOh, but I do love you, dear Bakkhos. I love you most fervently â it pains me that you should question that. Though I hold you most differently than I do my lovers, I still do hold you very closely and dearly to my heart. Donât you hear it tumbling? Thundering, even now?âÂ
He casted his eyes towards the Liber Pater, then smiled at him as he guided his hand towards his chest, where his heart jumped in palpitations, and his blood rushing seemingly without rest âHear that, the beating of this heart of mine â part of it is always yours.â Every cell of his being was roaring out, the intensity almost dizzying that he couldnât see straight, or think straight.
âBeloved brother, let me tell you, I have never loved,â he said softly after a while with the young nymp in his mind, and though his mien took a gentler approach, his soul was still rumbling, in a state of unrest. âI tell you now! I have never known love before this, for everything pales in comparison. I couldnât think straight, nor could I hear my own voice my head. Itâs her !! Everythingâs filled with her. I couldnât utter a word without her dancing in my mind, whispering her voice into my ears. Every second, she imprints herself on me â over and over again, until thereâs nothing left in my head that didnât know of her, didnât yearn for her. âTis not desires of the flesh I want from her, Bakkhos. Itâs â â he halted most suddenly, his lungs were on fire and was his sin, just thinking about her. â â itâs most peculiar. I want only her. I want only to say that I love her, I want only to press my words upon her skin, telling her the points of insanity she had driven me into. Beyond that .... I do not know. Beyond that ... Iâve not the faintest idea. I simply want her.âÂ
âHave you felt like that, hm? Tell me. To want nothing but to love, even if you know not what you want of her for the future.â And in that moment, his eyes locked with Dionysos. The frailty in which those ambers held. Apollo loved many a times before, but it was very plain to him what he wanted from the others, and it was always with great clarity that he took his actions, made his decisions. He stood for order, after all, and sided with rationality and logic. Were these not what he was known for?
Yet, there he was, chasing after the water nymph for days on end, begging to be heard. Nothing else went through his mind, not tactics to win her over, not seductions to melt her frigid heart. He sat there with Dionysos, waiting for an answer. In his confusion he shed his vulnerability and never did sun god look more ghastly and divine.