Chapter XXVII: Dionysus

CHAPTER XXVII

DIONYSUS

Dionysus’s head hurt.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain that radiated at his temples, tensing his whole body. His mouth was dry, his tongue swollen, and there was a roaring sound that filled his ears. He did not wish to awaken fully, but the longer he lay there and the more he surfaced to consciousness, the more he remembered about how he had come to be in this state.

Poseidon.

Ariadne.

He realized the roaring in his ears was the sea, and he forced his eyes open, blinking rapidly at the bright blue sky, realizing how the hot sun burned his skin.

He turned his head, and for a moment, his vision swam, but then everything came into sharp and sudden focus when he saw Ariadne lying some distance from him, half in water, half on land, and unmoving.

“No,” he croaked, scrambling to his feet, slipping on the sand as he rushed to her. “Fuck!” He fell to his knees beside her. The water surrounding her was tinged with scarlet. “Ari!”

He rolled her into his arms and cupped her face, brushing the sand from her cheek. She was too pale; even her lips were colorless. He checked for a pulse, pressing two fingers against the hollow area beneath her windpipe. A sluggish beat thrummed against his touch.

He placed a hand over her chest and closed his eyes, calling the water in her lungs, and after a moment, it spilled from her mouth. Yet there was still no movement, no sign of consciousness.

“Fuck,” he cursed again, noticing a large gash on her thigh, and while he could heal it, he had no idea how long she had bled or what kind of infection might have set in while they lay unconscious on shore.

He pulled her close and then looked up to find an old man staring down at them from atop a hill of white rock. He had wild white hair and a matching beard, and his skin was dark and bronzed as if he had spent his whole life beneath the sun. He wore only a white sash around his hips, and it seemed as wispy as sea-foam.

He was divine, Dionysus was sure of it, but he did not know who exactly he was. There were numerous sea gods.

“Please,” Dionysus called to him. “Please help us, I beg of you.”

Though the old man stared directly at him, he turned and walked out of sight.

“No, please!” Dionysus gathered Ariadne into his arms and scaled the rocky hill, squinting against the brightness of the rocks, which reflected the sun’s rays. From time to time, he was blinded by the light, and he slipped, falling hard to one knee. He knelt there for a moment, his gaze dropping to Ariadne’s face. Her lashes were long and fanned across her cheeks, which were turning rosy from the heat. While she was beautiful, he was desperate to look into her eyes once more. He couldn’t imagine never feeling her gaze on him again.

He wouldn’t.

He got to his feet. His knee stung, and he could tell there was blood, but it healed quickly. He tried to hold her closer to his chest, attempting to shield her face from the sun. As he came to the top of the white rocks, he saw the old man standing at the base of the hill as if he were waiting for them.

His heart rose a little, though he was not sure he should have hope.

“Will you help us?” Dionysus asked.

“I have helped you,” said the man. “I dragged you from the sea.”

Dionysus swallowed but his throat was dry and scratchy. “Then I am in your debt,” he said. “Please—”

The man turned again, his bare back burning red from the heat, glistening with sweat.

“Please,” Dionysus shouted. “I will remain in your debt if you will help us a little while longer. I need refuge—”

The man kept walking, disappearing down a sandy path overgrown with bright green flora.

“Wait!” Dionysus followed the man, who seemed to move like a ghost. He caught only a glimpse of him as he made his way down the shady path.

He was not sure how long he walked, but the terrain shifted as they neared the mountainous center of the island. The air became wetter, the ground mossy and rockier as it inclined steadily upward until he rounded a corner and found the man standing outside a small cottage that had been built into the side of the earthy wall.

Dionysus stared at the man.

“You say you are in my debt,” said the man.

“Whatever you wish,” Dionysus said.

“There is a cyclops who resides here and eats my sheep,” the man said. “Kill him.”

“After she is better,” Dionysus said. “I will see my debt through.”

The man gave no other demands or acknowledgments, and before Dionysus could say more or even ask where they were, he vanished.

Alone, Dionysus carried Ariadne into the cottage.

He was surprised to find that the floor was covered in sheepskin rugs. There was also a cot and a small clay fireplace. A few pots and a kettle were stacked beside it.

It would be enough.

He lay Ariadne on the cot and covered her with one of the blankets. He smoothed her hair away from her face, letting his hand linger on her forehead, which was warm to the touch. Then he brushed his fingers over her heated cheeks.

This was fever.

He frowned and pulled the blanket back to look at the wound on her thigh. He would need to clean it before he could heal it.

He was still in Poseidon’s territory, stranded in the middle of the sea, and while he could not teleport, he could call on his magic. The only danger was that the more he used, the more he faced the risk of drawing the god to them.

He spent a few more moments caressing Ariadne’s skin, reluctantly pulling away.

“I’ll be back,” he said.

He didn’t think she heard him at all, but it made him feel better to speak to her as if she could.

He left the cottage in search of firewood, herbs, and clean water.

Dionysus was familiar with the art of healing. He had been taught by Rhea, the mother goddess, who had cured him of Hera’s madness. The only thing that worked against him on this island was that he was not familiar with the environment. He had no idea where to find supplies or even if the wild would have what he needed.

He gathered wood first and then set water from the ocean to boil, offsetting the lid so he could collect the desalinated water. He checked on Ariadne before he left again to search for herbs, which was a far more tedious task. There was a variety he could use for fever—elderflowers, yarrow, echinacea, willow bark. The issue was finding one of them on this island wilderness.

It took him a while, but he finally located lemon balm and aloe, which he would use to disinfect her wound. By the time he returned to the cottage, anxiety tore at his chest, worsening when he checked on Ariadne, whose fever had spiked. Her skin was on fire.

He drew the blankets from her body and set about drying the lemon balm leaves over the fire and boiling the clean water he’d made. He studied the wound on her leg. It was a jagged cut that ran the length of her thigh, and the skin around it was red and angry. He guessed that she must have hit some kind of rock after they’d been swept out to sea.

Dionysus was disturbed that he could not recall what happened in the immediate aftermath of Poseidon’s yacht capsizing. He remembered holding on to Ariadne while she raged with madness, but at some point, he had lost consciousness, and so, it seemed, had she.

They were lucky they had managed to stay together.

He thought of Poseidon’s final words to him and his threat against Ariadne. He would be careful with how he used his magic and hope they could make it out of Poseidon’s realm before he realized either of them was alive.

Before he could clean her wound, he stripped her of her clothing, which was dry and stiff from salt water. There was nothing sexual about the process, and he hated having to do it without her knowledge.

When she was bare, he used hot water to clean her wound and then added a layer of aloe, leaving it uncovered. He would wait until tomorrow to heal it to ensure it was free of infection.

When the lemon balm leaves had dried, he crushed and boiled them to make a tea, and when it was cool enough, he propped Ariadne’s head into the crook of his elbow and brought the minty drink to her mouth.

“Come on, Ari,” he coaxed as he poured it into her mouth. He wasn’t sure how much actually made it down her throat, but it would have to do.

By the time he finished medicating her, night had fallen outside the cottage.

He washed her salt-encrusted clothes and lay them by the fire to dry. While he worked, he could hear thunder in the distance—there was another storm raging at sea, and as it hit land, it roared around the cottage, causing it to creak and groan.

Though he grew tired, he remained beside Ariadne, too afraid to leave her alone even if it was to sleep.

For a while, he did not speak, just stared at her face as color slowly crept back in. Finally, he spoke.

“You make me feel insane,” he said. “Like I’m struck with madness. I never thought I would want to feel that way again…but it’s different with you.”

He fell quiet and then he scrubbed his hand over his face, feeling ridiculous for having said that aloud, but at least she had not heard him.

He turned his head toward the soft sound of his name. Fingers twined into his braids, and lips trailed along his jaw.

“Ariadne?” he murmured, though he recognized her scent, the heat of her touch.

“Dionysus,” she said his name again, and it shivered across his skin. He wanted to capture her lips against his and taste her like he had that night in the pleasure district.

“Ari,” he whispered, and her hold on him tightened.

“Dionysus!” she barked, and he opened his eyes to find her staring at him.

He blinked, realizing he had fallen asleep with his head on her cot.

“You’re awake,” he said, straightening, rubbing at a sore spot on his neck.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“I’m not certain,” he said. “But if I had to guess, an island somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea.”

She frowned and then shifted beneath the blankets, drawing in a harsh breath between her teeth.

“Careful,” he said as she shoved the blankets aside to look at her leg. “I haven’t fully healed you yet.”

He rose onto his knees and placed one hand on her hip, the other just below her knee to keep her still.

“Why not?” she hissed.

“I can’t heal an infected wound, Ariadne,” he snapped.

It took a few more moments for her to relax, and once she did, they both seemed to realize she was naked. He lifted his hands and then quickly covered her again.

“I’ll get you more medicine,” he mumbled, rising from his place on the floor. He crossed to the fireplace and ladled more of the tea into a cup before returning to her and helping her sit up. “It’s lemon balm,” he explained as he placed the cup to her lips.

She held her hands against his as she drank and groaned in disgust as the tea touched her tongue.

“I know it isn’t the best,” he soothed. “But it will take the pain away.”

When she’d had enough, he helped her lie back down, and an awkward silence filled the cottage.

“Do you…remember what happened?” he asked after a moment.

It took her some time to respond and when she did, her voice was a whisper. “Mostly.”

Again they were quiet.

“Did he hurt you before we got to you?” He had to ask. He needed to know.

“Not really,” she answered.

It bothered him that her answer wasn’t a definitive no. He wanted to ask what Poseidon had done, but he also did not want to press. Last night had been traumatic enough.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Dionysus looked at her, but she was staring at the ceiling, a single tear trailing down the side of her face.

Her apology carried the weight of her regret, and it shuddered through him. It wasn’t until she spoke the words that he realized he hadn’t wanted to hear it because he did not deserve it. She’d had to face a horror that went well beyond simple consequences.

“Why are you sorry?”

“I should not have left to go to Poseidon on my own,” she said.

He was quiet. Then he said, “I went to him the day before. I didn’t tell you because I thought you were still angry with me and I…” He let his voice trail off. He hadn’t wanted to disturb her, but it didn’t matter anymore. What was done was done. Now, they had to move forward. “Poseidon does not have Medusa. I’m not sure where she is, but the worst part about her situation is that her power is only active after she’s dead.”

Ariadne met his gaze. “What?”

He had nothing more to say.

“Perhaps it’s best if she stays missing,” Ariadne said after a moment.

Dionysus did not disagree at this point.

Neither of them spoke for several minutes, and Ariadne had gone so quiet, he thought she had fallen asleep.

“I blame myself for what has happened to my sister,” she said, her voice soft. She wasn’t looking at him anymore; her gaze had returned to the ceiling.

“Why?” Dionysus asked, confused.

“Because I introduced them,” she said. “Theseus was…with me first.”

Dionysus bristled, surprised by just how hot his jealousy burned.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, though that felt like a stupid question. She didn’t have to.

“Because I’m ashamed,” she answered, her voice thick with emotion.

Her words cut through him, and he shifted closer, hovering over her.

“Ari,” he whispered, letting his fingers trail along her cheek. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I don’t care that he never loved me,” she said. “But I hate that he does not love my sister and that she is so devoted to him. She deserves more. She deserves everything.”

Dionysus studied her, and after a moment, he asked, “And what do you deserve?”

She was quiet.

“Ari?”

“Nothing,” she said, looking at him.

He frowned and started to speak, but Ariadne pressed her fingers to his mouth and shook her head. Tears welled in her eyes and her mouth quivered. After a moment, she managed to speak in a quiet whisper, “Good night, Dionysus.”