Too long delayed, the mysteries had taken Dionysus through one night and well into the next to complete, and the copper rich stink of blood spilled and burned laid heavy in the air, smoke drifting through the trees like fog. Vows exchanged, magics strengthened by herbed wine and blood, blessed by flesh, the Maenaeds had long since disappeared into the forest, and Dionysus was left alone next to the roaring fire. Gobbets of flesh and rivulets of blood dripped to hiss in the embers, and the black of his eyes gleamed in contrast with the carmine that stained skin.
The moon was high, when the god stirred to rise and stumble to the undefiled pool filled by an underground spring, and wine heavy on his tongue, Dionysus scrubbed away blood and grime, clawing himself clean. Baptized by a spill of wine from the last of the casks, he walked back to the main house, deep purple footprints marking his path into a proper shower.
An hour found him meticulously groomed and smelling of sandalwood and myrr, the tailored suit he'd chosen dark enough for a funeral, and he stepped down from the porch and into the foyer of Aphrodite's manse. All was still, too still, and without taking a step, Dionysus knew that Hephaestus had made good on his promise. The treacherous bitch had been whisked away, and rage kindled as the god's fingers twitched, her creamy flesh imagined in their grip, bruising... splitting... bleeding...
A growl, and Dionysus closed his eyes, statue still and seeking, and there. Hidden amongst the banks of blooms and statuary of the goddess' garden, her stolen prize lay sleeping.
A thought moved the god silently into the guest house, and Dionysus frowned to find it... lived in. A tablet lay on the table in front of the couch, the remote half-hidden under a tangled blanket, a shirt draped casually on the back of an armchair. There were dishes in the sink, and as the god moved through the small cottage, it began to truly sink in. Gideon had returned. Gideon had chosen to return. Persephone would never have allowed it had he not, and yet...
A slight rattle caught him by surprise, and Dionysus frowned to find he'd kicked a large box that had been pushed aside. Lifting one of the flaps, he took in the contents and the blood in his veins began to boil even and every piece of glass on the property shattered, every window, every piece of crystal and china... every mirror. Spiderweb cracks gave way at the next cursed breath and every surface was littered with glittering shards.
Given Aphrodite's vanity, the sounds was not unlike a small explosion and Dionysus found Gideon startled awake, sitting in the middle of a bed large enough for an army, the boy's modesty protected only by the silken sheets puddled around his hips.
The reflected light from the pool shimmered through the window as Dionysus stepped forward, painting his face blue and green as their eyes met, and the god cocked his head, the first words he'd spoken in hours that weren't screamed like sandpaper on his tongue.
"I've always wondered, Gideon, are the dreams of the dead sweet?"