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The rain had started to fall on the docks as the last terrified scream echoed against the concrete buildings and steel containers surrounding them, trapping them in, looming over them like a silent jury. Looming over him. His hand lowered shakily and the gold marks along his skin faded into nothingness as he let the power drain from him, no longer necessary now that the threat was eliminated.
But now…now he had a different problem. One gold couldn’t fix. One he couldn’t fix.
As the rain became heavier and thunder rumbled in the distance he could feel their gazes on his back, and he could imagine the expressions on their faces if he would turn to look. Fear. Horror. Possibly betrayal.
He had lied for so long. Lied to them all. He had hidden who he really was under the guise of protecting them. Instead, he had only been selfish. He had lied to them because he cared. And because they cared in return. They cared for him, and not for the gold that formed from his fingertips so effortlessly. He didn’t want to lose that feeling of belonging that he hadn’t had in decades. So he lied.
And now he lost it anyway.
He couldn’t turn, couldn’t face them, their disappointment, their fear. Everyone feared him in Los Santos; they feared who he truly was, to be exact. Few feared the Fake’s Golden Boy. But many feared the God that owned the city.
No one had known that they were one and the same. Until now. Until he had no choice. Until he had to give everything up in the name of protecting them from being gunned down in a planned massacre.
At least they were alive. That was his only solace. They were still alive.
Without turning, he spoke, voice just loud enough to reach them above the rain and thunder, “I’m sorry.”
And he ran.
Everyone thought they knew the legend. The story of the king who wished for the golden touch and was punished for his greed when he couldn’t eat, and when his beloved daughter was turned into a golden statue of herself. When he begged Dionysus for a reprieve from his mistake, he was given a way out: wash anything he turned to gold in a river, and they would return to the way they were.
That was how the story went, at least. The story of Midas.
It couldn’t be more wrong.
Midas wasn’t born a king. He wasn’t even born a mortal. He was a demigod, son of Dionysus and a blind peasant woman named Theodosia. Born of trickery, when Dionysus disguised himself as the woman’s devoted husband, Akakios, as he was out to market. She only discovered the deceit afterward, but it was too late. She would birth the God’s son when the time came.
They called him Midas, and Akakios loved him as if he was his own blood. After all, the two had desperately prayed for a child and if this is how the Gods chose to grant their prayers, then so be it.
Midas grew into a curious and playful young boy before they discovered his gift. His gift of gold. He didn’t understand why the King of their small island called his Mama and Papa and him to see him. All he did was make a flower pretty and shiny for his Mama. Was he in trouble?
He would later say he was.
The King was a greedy man, always coveting the wealth of the larger islands, of the grander Kings. And he saw Midas as a way to achieve that wealth; a child who could make gold on command was his gift from the Gods. So, he offered the peasant parents a deal: he would ensure they had food on the table, and clothes on their backs, as long as the child would create for him.
Without a way to truly say no, they agreed, and Midas went into the employ of their King. He still remained with his beloved Mama and Papa, growing stronger every day as he helped with their modest farm. But the calls to create were getting more frequent and more elaborate, and Theodosia and Akakios worried when it would no longer be enough.
The answer came on the eve of Midas’ thirteenth birthday, Akakios out at market two days away, with a promise to bring his son a wonderful gift. The King had not called in a few days, which had become a bit of an oddity, but they thought nothing of it. If he didn’t call, Midas stayed home, and stayed strong. Too much creating and he would grow tired and weak.
They should have worried more.
The knock on the door came as the moon was rising over the coast. Midas would always regret opening that door.
Soldiers grabbed him as soon as the door opened, their grip tight on the boy’s arms as he struggled. He heard his mother cry out for him, reach for him. She was yelling at the soldiers to release her son, that they had no business taking him.
“By decree of your King, this boy is now property of the Kingdom and shall be escorted to the palace,” one soldier spoke, his voice cold and level. He cared not for this woman’s concern, for her upset. At least, until she grabbed at Midas.
A sword was drawn in an instant, blood on the floor as she dropped. He vaguely remembered screaming for her, trying his best to get to her. But it was too late. Far too late.
The last time Midas would ever see his first home was that night, as flames licked the sky and destroyed everything he ever knew.
Gavin was good at hiding. He had done it for centuries under different names, different faces. He had run for years, for decades, without so much as a second thought. So why was it so hard to leave now? Why couldn’t he find himself away from Los Santos, away from California, away from the States?
Why wasn’t he back in England with Dan? Why was he still watching them from a distance?
Because he cared. For the first time in many, many years, he cared.
So he stayed.
He spent three years as a slave to the King. Three years of nothing more than creating for a man who cared not for him as a person, only as means to an end. Gone was the curious child with the golden smile and bright laugh. Gone, like his home. Gone, like his family. He was alone, and only had himself to blame.
Him, and his golden curse.
It was three years before anyone would come for him. Dionysus himself coming to collect his son from the tyrant who had made him a slave. Dionysus didn’t take kindly to the treatment of his blood, to the murder of Theodosia, whom he still cared for.
It wan’t Dionysus that found him, though. It was a satyr named Pan. The God of Nature himself.
“Midas?” He questioned, looking into the eyes of a boy who had seen too much, “It’s time to come home. Your father is here.”
“Akakios?” Midas would ask, knowing he would be wrong. He wondered if Akakios would have ever come for him if he knew where he was. If he knew he was alive. Midas’ power took everything from Akakios; he had no reason to seek out the bastard child who ruined his life.
“No, boy,” Pan predictably told him, something kind in his gaze, “Dionysus. He’s been looking for you for quite a while; no child of his shall be a slave.”
“He’s a few years too late,” Midas told the God, but followed him despite his cynical words.
Dionysus couldn’t have been more different than Akakios had been. Akakios was a quiet, thoughtful man. Dionysus was loud, boisterous, and quite temperamental it seemed. But, he was Midas’ escape from this prison, and he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Midas had his suspicions as to what happened to the King, but he never asked. He never cared. If the King was dead, then everyone was better for it.
He allowed Dionysus and Pan to lead him away to yet another place he didn’t know. Another place that wasn’t home.
He had never been more homesick in his life.
The crew was searching for him. They had been for the last week since he disappeared. He saw Michael’s fires, and Jeremy’s fights. He saw Jack’s helicopter combing the hills and Geoff’s car on the streets. He saw cameras searching for him, Matt on the other end. He heard Trevor digging for intel, and Alfredo searching by scope. And there was Lindsay, causing chaos as if they hoped it would be a siren song for Gavin to come back. To help them cause it.
But it wasn’t any of them who found him first.
No, it was the one who grew up in Los Santos. The one who knew the stories. Who knew where you turned when your luck had run out.
Fiona arrived to the modest plywood stand in a damp alleyway in La Mesa with a bag full of gold pinched from the crew and a determination unlike any other. She was the one to call him back, unable to ignore a request from his own altar.
“Fi? Why are you here?”
She graced him with a narrow stare, arms crossed, anger and concern in her veins, “ Why do you think I’m here, Gavin? I’m here because you left. You left and you haven’t come back.”
Stepping from the shadows, he gave her a tired, golden-eyed once over, ‘I’m not coming back, Fiona.”
“Like hell you aren’t!”
He lifted his head, standing straight, looking very much like the God he was, “Go home, Fiona. Forget Gavin Free. Forget me.”
He didn’t stick around to hear her reply.
He was eighteen now. Two years with Dionysus, and two years since he was no longer a slave. At least, in normal terms. Now…now he was a trophy. Dionysus’ favored son; not because of himself, but because of his mother. His mother Dionysus still loved. He was nothing more than his remaining link to the past.
He was no more his own man than a child.
But, he did have solace in one other. Pan, the Satyr God, had become his closest friend. He taught him how to control his power, how to shape it, how to bend it to his will. He taught him about the shepherds who called to Pan for blessings, and the animals they herded across the land. Pan taught him about nature, and showed him how to respect it.
But, most of all, Pan taught him he belonged to no one.
The Gods of Olympus also seemed to take a shine to him. Artemis taught him the hunt, and how to feed himself should he require it. Hephaestus taught him the forge, another way to bend his powers into beautiful and useful shapes. Apollo taught him medicine, how to heal himself if a fight went wrong. Athena taught him wisdom, and how to find one with unpleasant intentions.
Hades gave him the greatest gift of all.
In a small temple on the coast, a lone keeper watched over the altar of Hades. Devout in his care of the temple and his prayers to the god, Hades had been curious what this man had lost to cause him to be so pious to the God of the Underworld. Hades appeared to the man one night, as the keeper was finishing his evening prayer, and he asked. He asked what the man prayed for more than anything.
“The happiness in the afterlife of my wife and son,” the man answered, eyes awed, but tired, as if he had lost the life that once resided in them.
“What is your name, Keeper?” Hades asked of him, not unkindly, “And what were your wife and son called?”
“Lord Hades,” the man replied, “They call me a Ghost now, but once my name was Akakios. My beloved was Theodosia, and my son Midas.”
Hades knew then he was looking at the man who raised Dionysus’ golden son, the same one Pan had been searching for in an attempt to bring happiness back to his friend. Dionysus had never truly been a father to Midas. But Akakios had. And it was only right the boy was returned to his father.
“Devout Akakios,” Hades spoke, “I wish for you to meet someone. You have been praying to me for many years, and I wish to reward your selflessness. You cared not for your own gain, but for the souls you have lost. Come with me, Temple Keeper. And I will give you a gift.”
Akakios had no reason to deny his Lord, so he stood, approaching the God of the Underworld with the lack of hesitation reserved for men who welcomed death. Together, Hades whisked them away from the temple on the coast, to a grove surrounded by trees, the smell of earth as strong as the scent of sea salt had been before.
“Hades,” a voice called, “What do I owe the pleasure?”
Akakios never dreamed of meeting one God, let alone two, but before him stood a Satyr, flute in hand, a crown of leaves and flowers adorned his head. Pan, the god he once prayed to for the safety of his flock.
“I found him, Pan,” Hades said, gesturing to the man beside him, “You were correct, he did yet live. He’s been one of my most loyal followers, but he is here now. Pan, may I introduce you to Akakios.”
Pan seemed quite overjoyed to meet this mortal man, and it only confused Akakios more when the satyr…hugged him?
“Oh, he’ll be thrilled, Hades! He’s nearby, wait here!”
Akakios looked to his God for answers, but found nothing more than a kind smile.
“Pan!” Another man’s voice echoed through the clearing, “What is this about, my friend? I haven’t seen you this excited since the last revelry!”
The voice was so familiar, yet so different. Who was Pan leading back down the path?
Akakios’ breath left his lungs as a golden-eyed boy — no, man — followed Pan back into the grove. It couldn’t be, yet here he was, alive and breathing and looking at him like he had seen the ghost he had been called.
“Midas?”
“Father?”
“I hear you’re looking for him.”
The crew was no stranger to the black-clad figure in their living room. He had his own reputation, but seemed to exist only when he wished to exist. The city called him The Ghost, the specter in black with the blank white mask that haunted the streets.
Rumor also had it that he was Midas’ only priest.
“We are,” Geoff said, eyeing the figure warily, “But not for a favor.”
“No, you’re looking for him for personal reasons, I am aware,” The Ghost said, glancing out the windows overlooking Los Santos, “I know who you are and what he means to you. A friend, not a God. Something he desperately needed after so long alone.”
Jack cocked her head, “So you are connected to him.”
“You could say that, yes. I know you know how to contact him. One of you already has. But it will take more than gold and pleas for him to come back. He’s frightened.”
“Of us?” Fiona pipes up, brows burrowed in confusion, “Why?”
“Almost everyone who has ever known his true nature has turned on him. Used him for their own gain. Or, has cast him out, shown him hatred and distrust. He doesn’t want that with you. He cares too much; it’d kill him if you cast him aside.”
“I don’t care if he shits diamonds!” Geoff exclaimed, “He belongs here.”
The Ghost cocked his head, and they could almost sense he was smiling, as if they had passed some test of his when it came to Gavin. Maybe they had.
“Go to his altar. All of you. Bring your tributes. He cannot ignore a call from the altar; he refuses to. Tell him what he means to you. He will listen, but this may be your only chance to get him back.”
“What’s your angle?” Jeremy finally asked, arms crossed, “Why help us?”
The Ghost laughed, something soft in it, as he pulled off the mask, showing them a olive-skinned man with dark hair pulled back and sharp, clever steel-gray eyes assessing them, “I’m simply a concerned father, looking out for his son.”
Midas would run many, many times in his life. Whether from those with foul intentions or from lives run their course. But none were more important than when he ran from Dionysus that first time, Pan and his father by his side. He was a free man, now. Free to be who he wanted.
It wouldn’t be the last time he’d be Free.
He gained a reputation in the cities they passed through. He would set up a small stand, selling jewelry and golden trinkets. The nobles loved his work, but the peasants were the ones who praised him more. He would take the coin he earned and buy them food, buy them cloth, buy them whatever they needed. He never kept for himself. He, nor his father, nor his brother. They gave to those who couldn’t provide.
“We’ve been where you are,” they told them with sincere kindness, “If you ever are in need, pray to the one they call Midas. He will answer.”
Gods are only as strong as their following. And as Midas’ following grew, the stronger his power became. Everyone prayed for gold. But he wasn’t just the fledgling god of gold. No, he was more. God of the Outcasts. God of the Impoverished. For they coveted gold in the purest form. They only wanted to provide for themselves and those they loved.
So, while Midas charmed the nobles, he truly became a man, a God, of the poor.
Years would pass, and he would gain many names. He would become many men. He would help many more. He would learn at the greatest institutions, read the greatest literature, and see history unfold right before his eyes. The rise and fall of empires, the invention of wonderful and terrible things, religions growing and dying. He watched it all.
And beside him stood his friend — his brother in all but blood — Pan, now often called Daniel. And on his other side, bearing a gift from Hades himself, stood Akakios, his beloved father.
And he? Well he became fond of a certain English name. Gavin.
He was tired. Tired of hiding. Tired of trying to decide to run, only for his heart to bring him back. He was tired.
He was tired of lying to himself that he didn’t care anymore.
So when he got the call from his altar with a very familiar feeling, he wanted to ignore it. But, his promise always brought him back. Midas would always answer.
“Fiona,” he started, appearing in the alleyway without preamble, “I told you to forget-“
“Yeah, and I think she probably told you that wasn’t gonna fucking happen, Boi.”
Midas froze, taking in the nine people before him, staring at him, having called him here. They were all there. His crew. And on the altar was his own gold aviators, among gold trinkets he recognized. The crew loved calling him a magpie, always picking up something gold and shiny for them when he could. There sat his gifts to them. In a gift back to him.
“Midas,” another voice chimed in from behind him, and he didn’t have to look to know who it was, “Listen to them. They care more than your fear leads you to believe.”
“We miss you, buddy,” Geoff looked torn between reaching out for a hug or throttling him, and Midas’ heart ached for how normal that was, “Come home. I don’t care what magic shit you can do. You’re still our favorite dumbass that makes stupid bird noises and makes up words because you can.”
“I’m a God,” Midas choked out, “I’m not like you. I never should have been close. I never should have pretended.”
Lindsay smiled gently, their hand reaching out to him, “I’m sure even Gods need friends.”
“You…you really…don’t care?”
“I mean, we kinda would like an explanation, but for the superpower shit, not really. I mean, it was pretty fucking cool how you made goddamn statues of those guys,” Jeremy’s grin was lopsided and Midas could have hugged him too for how normal they all acted. It was as if nothing changed. Had anything changed? Well, yes, they knew the truth. They knew their Golden Boy was a Golden God.
But they didn’t care. And now he felt foolish for thinking they even would.
“Go home, Midas,” Akakios said quietly, “They’re as much your family as I am. Go home and be happy. You deserve it.”
Slowly, Midas stepped towards his crew, and they could see a change in him. Something different. Something more familiar.
Gavin Free had returned to his family. He had stopped running for the first time in a long, long time. And they were there to welcome him home with open arms.