Chapter Text
We are different
in the way that the two sides
of the same coin are.
You, walking contradiction
of everything that I stand
for and everything
that I am and yet — I would
like for you to succeed in
life, Dionysus.
— a renga poem written by Phoibos Apollon, date unknown.
DIONYSUS DID NOT remember anything upon waking. Such was the double-edged sword of being known as the God of Revelry—the very wine that he had created affected him just as it did any old mortal. In this day and age the mortals called it a hangover. Dionysus preferred to call it his undoing. He had shed his clothes at some point during the night and now lay bare as the day he was born, body tangled within sheets that were far too soft to be anything but Olympus-made. The room spun as he extricated himself—unwillingly, the bed was so warm—and stretched out his limbs to ensure he was still in possession of all of them. His fanclub—called so by Aphrodite, distaste etched into every pretty line of her face—was known to fall prey to his domain over madness, and sometimes that included attempting to tear everyone in the vicinity apart. Sometimes, though not always, he was included in the numbers, far too inebriated (another mortal term that he’d found himself growing fond of) to do anything about it except laugh. He stumbled all the way to the chaise by the window, dropping his weight on it without ceremony. The blinds were open—sue him, he might have been a drunk but he was also a God of Agriculture—and for a moment he felt as though the sun had shifted to face him directly. Then the warmth of it faded away.
A moment later there was a knock upon the door to his room, a voice calling out, “Lord Dionysus!” Vaguely he registered that it sounded urgent, that he should have made an effort to get up or at the very least cover himself (not that he, or any of the Olympians, cared about human concepts like propriety. Perhaps the minor goddesses, in an effort to make it more difficult for Zeus to bed them, did. Somehow he doubted that anything could stop Zeus at all.) “Lord Dionysus, you have a visi—!”
Was he surprised that the voice cut off? Not a bit. This was one thing he and his unwelcome visitor would always agree on—a dramatic entrance was a memorable entrance. The door opened, much quieter than he would have expected it (a display of care, or merely tossing it in his face how much more in control the other god was) and Dionysus chanced a glance past the long, flowing fabric of his visitor’s robes to see what had been made of his attendant. “Turn my attendant into a Campion and force your way into my rooms as many times as you want, Apollo. I’m not going to sit at Council to be mocked. Hestia can have her seat back.”
“Hestia does not want the seat back; she prefers the warmth of the hearth. Besides, Council or not, you have duties to attend to.”
Dionysus closed his eyes. He could hear Apollo moving throughout the room; his robes sweeping the floor, his blunt nails working through some papers haphazardly stacked in a corner—most of them party invitations burned by those who considered themselves devoted to him—and even the rustle of the sheets as his bed was made. The God of Order could be quite rigid in his beliefs; everything had to be done his way. Once, Dionysus would have been bothered by it—the feeling of being controlled, of not being able to have his way even within the space that was supposed to be his—but it had been revealed to him, back when he’d still been a young god, that the actions were not done consciously. He is the God of Order, and that means more than you may ever be able to understand, Hestia had said once, be patient, as we have all had to be. She had been right, in the end. It had taken Dionysus forever and a while to finally understand. “Duties.” he spat, feeling the headache pressing in. “There are other Gods of Agriculture to do my duties.”
“If your wish is to be replaced at Delphi, that can be done.” Apollo said, “There are plenty of minor gods and goddesses who would love to be in your place.”
There was this phrase the mortals loved to use. Sobering thoughts. Not because it made them any less drunk, but because it forced them into a moment, however brief, of clarity. This was not that. This was Dionysus realizing, for the first time, that he was replaceable. No, there would never be another god that complemented Apollo as well as he did. No other would dare to test the boundaries of their divinity like he did. But— that did not make him irreplaceable. He would not fade into obscurity, not now, not after so long. But architecture could be altered. They could remove his likeness from the walls of Apollo’s temple and add the face of another in his stead. They could bury the history of his cult beneath the stories of some other god, and then what? He would still be Dionysus, he would still have his domains. But it would be different, somehow. Less… stable.
“No,” he said. “I’ll get up. I’m up.”
“Good.” Apollo replied, sounding almost like he meant it. “Your cult was already attempting to bring down the doors when I left.”
“They prefer open spaces.”
“There is plenty of that around.”
“Yes.” he said. “Was that all?” He did not dare to open his eyes. There was always a sense of danger in looking at Apollo—Zeus’ favorite son and his greatest threat; the one who collected his scattered pieces and buried them at Delphi; the one who had once whispered, I would like to see you succeed. Was it odd, he wondered, to feel like a disappointment? They were by no means close, but not on opposing sides. They tended to disagree on the fundamentals—Dionysus would never prioritise facts over feeling, and Apollo knew that, he had to—but there were moments in which he felt that maybe, they were not so different at all.
“No,” Apollo said, sounding closer. The sound didn’t travel as much, at any rate. He hated that he knew that, that he could point it out. But Delphi had great acoustics—he had learned a thing or two with time. There was a touch at his forehead, fleeting, almost gentle. His headache went, and Apollo went with it.
“Remember the Campion,” he called out.
“Consider it an incentive. Return him to his usual state yourself.” Apollo said. The door shut, quietly, behind him.
Still Dionysus did not open his eyes for a long, long time.
His duties at Delphi beckoned, eventually. The Pythia did not answer to him—he was not a God of Prophecy—but had a way of overtaking his thoughts, regardless. Or maybe it was simply the fact that an Apollo not at Delphi meant an Apollo lurking through Olympus. The sight of him going about his Olympus-bound duties made Dionysus feel singularly useless. So, he dressed himself, warned his attendant away from incurring the wrath of any other Gods (not many of them would be so lenient as to only turn him into a plant; Dionysus himself included.) and promptly left for Delphi.
His cult was already waiting. More than that, they were already indulging in wine and each other’s bodies. Very few of them stopped to look at him at all, and he found that he almost preferred it that way. The part of voyeur was not one that he could avoid playing when in the presence of his cult, but that did not mean that he wished to make eye contact. Seriously.
Rolling his eyes (internally—if his cult ever got wind that he did not enjoy their presence as they did his, they would tear him apart. Literally.) he made his way up the well-worn path and towards the Temple of Apollo. He came up from the west, meaning that the first thing he properly saw was his own face staring back at him. Except it wasn’t truly his face. The Dionysus of the Temple—Dionysus Kitharodos—was youthful, almost feminine; sensual, graceful, in flowing fabric not unlike the one Apollo had been wearing earlier in the day. In that sculpture he held a kithara as the Thiadyes danced behind him. This was a version of him that lived in a sheep’s skin. The— controlled version, the acceptable version. The one that stood amongst Apollo, Ares, Hermes, and Hephaestus at Council as just another one of Zeus’ many sons. The one that cared for Delphi in the winter while its patron was away. It depicted him. It was not him. Gods, like humans, were rarely so one-dimensional.
The East of the Temple depicted Apollo arriving to take his seat as the master of the Pythia, the protector of Delphi, flanked by his mother Leto and his sister Artemis. The two sculptures had been created by the very same set of people, and yet they could not be more different. They had captured the essence of the Delphic God perfectly and yet had been unable to do the same for him. Perhaps logic and reason were easier to make sense of than ecstasy and madness. It did not change anything—they had attempted to make him appear less wild in order to make sense of him as the god Apollo had chosen to share worship at his sacred temple, as the god allowed at his side, not necessarily as equals, but equal enough. It made no sense to the mortals because they had gotten the motivation wrong.
The words, I would like to see you succeed rang often in his head, unbidden and without consent. Apollo had not needed anyone to care for Delphi in his stead; he had done it alone long before Dionysus had been made a god and could have just as easily continued in that way, but he had chosen not to. Because Dionysus, for all that he had been worshipped in his own way before his ascension, lauded by mortals for his wine, had been a new god, and new gods fell easily. Disappeared, faded into obscurity like they had never existed at all, until a new one rose in their place. Did anybody ever remember Pan, or did their knowledge fail them past their recognition of Demeter? Did anybody think of Thanatos, or Charon, or Nyx, or did they just assume that Pluton made all the things go bump in the night? When they mentioned rivers, did they spare a thought for the gods and nymphs that resided within them? No, of course not. Apollo—being the God of Knowledge—tended to take it more personally than most and, as he had been the one to bury Dionysus in the first place, took it upon himself to make sure Dionysus did not become a footnote in history the way Aristaeus had. Aristaeus, who had given the mortals cheese!
The first step of his plan had been convincing the Muses to write poetry about him, his achievements, his losses. The next was ensuring that he was known throughout Greece, that no mortal associated the words wine, grapes, ecstasy with anything but the newly-ascended Dionysus. He had done most of that on his own, but with it had come a new association through no means of his own. The humans came to the conclusion that their grapes were sweeter, riper, better for eating, when the sun could reach them uninhibited; that indulging in guilty pleasures came easier under the cover of night, when the God of Reason was no longer pulling the sun across the sky; that perhaps the Sun God and the Wine God were far more linked than any of them had previously believed.
Ah, but Dionysus had spent so much time trying to make it anything but! He’d raged, made his fruits wither instead of ripen in the presence of the sun; made those who indulged only in secret, only when they could deny him, go mad instead. If they would not claim him, they would suffer at his hand. It helped nothing. Rather than succumbing to the madness as they should have, they would pray, instead. To Apollo. To their beloved God of Light, their God of Healing, the god that undid all of his work with a simple touch. He was older. He was stronger. Dionysus hated him.
In time he decided that if he could not be rid of Apollo’s sway over his domains, then he would simply have to sway Apollo’s domains in turn. The arts seemed as good a start as any. It was easy to pick and choose which parts of them he preferred—the poetry, certainly, the writing of it all. But he did not wish to take the poetry—it was more the Muses’ than Apollo’s, anyway—and so he altered it, instead. Thus was born the theatre. And they loved it. They loved him.
And now, he was here. Despite all his efforts, it was still his face on the west side of Apollo’s temple. Because, when asked, he had been unable to deny. He had hated it, raged against it, but in the end, he found he was quite content with it. With being the other side of the coin. With having his name invoked on dark, winter days when the Delphic god was away. It made him feel needed; useful. Like he did more than simply force mortals to descend into madness and addiction. Like he had earned the right to lounge within this temple while a member of his cult fed him grapes. Like he hadn’t been the one to say there are other Gods of Agriculture to do my duties just hours ago.
Or maybe he simply liked it because Hermes hated it. Now, he loved Hermes, who had protected him from Hera’s wrath long long ago. They shared things, with domains that often overlapped. It certainly helped that the God of Messengers had a very easy-going, playful nature that matched will with Dionysus’ own. Yet they still had a point of contention. For a god that was known to be flighty, never staying in one place for too long, he sure was prone to jealousy. And he never really did get over the fact that he wasn’t offered the position.
He claimed it was favoritism. He moaned about betrayal and ungrateful brothers and made it a point to stick as closely as Apollo as he could—until Artemis got annoyed with his hovering—as if it was a competition. Maybe to him, it was. But not to Dionysus. He had no interest in competing to be the favorite brother. Probably because he didn’t consider Apollo a brother at all. Hermes, yes. Hermes had known him as a baby, kept him safe. The rest of them, though, were merely fellow sons of Zeus, which did not make them brothers. If it did, then half of Greece would be his siblings. There was a difference, though he could not explain it, and would not attempt to. He was quite certain Apollo did not regard him as a brother, either. Which made Hermes’ jealousy all the more confusing; a battle with no clear winner, because there was only one person fighting in it.
Still it made him feel important, and there was little more he loved quite as much as that, so being the cause of Hermes’ jealousy was something that he would always enjoy. But he could not be that if Apollo decided to find another god to take his place after all, and so he had to take his duties seriously. But, first, he needed to give his cult a proper welcome.
By the time the sun rose again he was lying in a patch of wildflowers, leopard pelt tossed over himself and three others for the illusion of decency. It did nothing to hide the movements of a hand beneath it, nor the quiet, breathy noises coming from the one next to him and, not for the first time, he wondered whether Aphrodite might enjoy an invitation to one of his cult’s gatherings. It seemed like the type of thing she might like, even if she, like him, ended up being more of an audience than a participant. Ecstasy was thick in the air and he felt invincible. Next time, he decided, he would ask her. The worst she could say was no. It could be considered offensive to partake in cult activities at another god’s temple but for the next three months this temple was as much his as it was Apollo’s. Besides, it wasn’t a secret.
It was a curious thing because the Temple was the center of Apollo’s worship, and was therefore so tightly woven with him and his domains that it seemed as though he never really left. Dionysus kept a large amount of the cult activities outside because of it, namely the ones that saw fluids of all kinds splattering about. It took very little effort to respect a shared space. Within the temple they only sought council, ate, and drank wine—finely aged and meant for sipping with a meal. Perhaps a kiss or ten would be exchanged when inhibitions loosened, but anything past that was forbidden. They knew better than to test him.
They mostly remained outside. Inside the temple, Apollo’s power could be felt. His cult simply was not as ecstatic when there was a phantom iron hand crushing every hint of pleasure in its fist. Irritating; it always took so long for his presence to truly fade away, as if the Pythia within the Temple’s walls was begging him, don’t leave me here with them! That was another reason why they remained outside—some members of his cult had no shame left at all, and Apollo would actually murder them all if they even lingered within two metres of her body. Dionysus found that she was generally easy to get along with—inhaling hallucinogenic fumes to be closer to the god you served was just his type of thing, really—but that she, much like Apollo, was simply far too serious, rational, and put-together to truly feel at ease in his presence. And, technically, they were in her house. So: outside.
Sometimes she would venture out on her own account to sit on the steps of the crepidoma, and in those moments he found himself wondering if she liked the respite, or if she preferred having believers asking for a prophecy like in the other nine months of the year. It tended to vary. Some of the women that had taken on the title of Pythia liked to indulge in his cult’s activities if they were allowed to. They had to be celibate, but they could drink. They could dance. They could, if they so wished, allow themselves to feel ecstasy in ways that had nothing to do with sexual pleasure. Those women liked his three-month tenure. Others, like this one, took the title of Pythia as the honor it was meant to be. They did not drink. They did not dance. They did not engage in conversation with his cult, only him, and only when spoken to. They existed in their home as if they were the guest, not him. Usually they would at least accept the grapes and the figs he offered.
This one—she was young. Younger than the usual, perhaps young enough to have only bled once or twice before, if at all. An odd choice, certainly. Most of them were not old enough to be married, but certainly old enough to have dabbled in things that their mothers and fathers would not agree with. The current Pythia? No chance. It gave him even more of a reason to keep his cult outside for as long as he could; a young girl like this would not be just under Apollo’s protection but Artemis’ as well, and he was much happier without incurring their wrath.
He tilted his face up toward the sun, which lingered as it always did; Apollo, unable to let things go, unable to trust that his Pythia would come to no harm. This time he did roll his eyes. It was only the presence of his cult, at Apollo’s main seat of power, that kept him from doing worse. He wasn’t a child any longer. They’d been sharing—alternating—custody of the Temple and Delphi as a whole for years. His face had been on the East wall longer than any of his cult had been alive! So he was bitter. Bitter that he’d been offered this position yet not offered the trust that should have come with it. What good was any of this when it wasn’t truly his? When he couldn’t even exist within the Temple for worry of traumatizing the too-young Pythia? He was a God of Nature. Wild, not like those Gods of Civilization. The Temple had allowed that, before. Now it felt just as oppressive as Olympus.
Another little noise from the one lying beside him, muffled into their own hand—a compromise, so as to keep young, innocent ears from hearing things they ought not to. Such was the difference between the two gods who took up the protection of Delphi. The followers closest to Apollo would die without ever experiencing that sort of pleasure, while Dionysus’ were encouraged to seek it out. And yet, somehow, they coexisted. Just because he only dwelt at the Temple for three months did not mean that signs of his tenure did not exist. His animal skins remained—piled into a corner in wait or scattered on the floor like rugs—and the air tended to smell like grapes instead of the incense that Apollo’s priests (who remained, just like the Pythia) favored. All of it remained, like little cracks in the surface of an otherwise perfectly orderly Temple—a reminder that order would be nothing without a little mess.
It was in those moments of realization that Hestia’s words returned to the forefront of his mind. He is the God of Order, and that means more than you may ever be able to understand. Now that he finally did understand it, he found himself wondering how long it would take for the cracks in the Temple to transfer onto its god.
The answer, regrettably, was not very long at all.
You possess the solitary ability to bring ecstasy to those around you through the mere art of existing.
Would you indulge me for a moment?
Please.
He had said no. Not out of cruelty, not out of malice. Artemis knew her brother better than anyone and warned him off from even thinking about saying yes. He will love you for it now, and hate you for it later. But Dionysus had already known that; the answer was always going to be no. Apollo knew it, too. It had not required an explanation, the way it might have done had it been anyone else and not Apollo, because the facts were simple: running away from how he felt would only serve to diminish Hyacinthus’ memory. Hyacinthus who would now forever be remembered as a flower—a lovely purple bloom that Dionysus almost considered asking him to share. He did not, in the end; he could be many things but he did not believe in being cruel without reason.
And, honestly, Dionysus had always shied away from having his domains encroach on another god’s being. They always enjoyed it too much. They always wanted him to keep them under his influence. And—despite his constant shirking of duties—they did have a job to do. He was by no means the most responsible god on Olympus—more likely one of the least—but he would not support others following his lead, either. So, he said no. It did admittedly boost his ego to have heard please but that died the second he had looked at Apollo. Oh, but he was still as orderly and neat as ever. Stiff, straight-backed. But his eyes were sad. And a little furious. Dionysus would have been stupid to say yes. Adding more emotions would have driven him over the edge, so to speak. Dionysus would not have the wind gods’ abuse on his hands.
Instead he had pulled Apollo with him into his bedroom and onto the chaise on which he frequently laid. The curtains were pulled shut (Helios was a terrible gossip) and his most recent bottle of wine set on the table. “If you wish to talk, or drink, or organise your thoughts as you organise my room…” he let the sentence hang, “Or we can simply sit. Or you can lay down. Anything, so long as it is not attempting to get revenge. You cannot kill another God. And quite frankly I don’t think he would approve of it if you did.”
“You did not know him.”
“No, but I imagine the boy must have been as lovely as the flower he was turned into. And lovely boys tend to turn their noses up at murder.” Dionysus had bedded mostly women, it was true, for women tended to be less… restrained, perhaps was the word, than men. They knew all that they had to lose and were willing to risk it, whereas men believed they had nothing to lose, and still did not dare. His lovely wife, also, was more prone to bouts of jealousy when a man was concerned (for what reason, Dionysus had never understood; except for the fact that his followers were mostly women, and so any man that gained his attention had to be truly impressive indeed.) Yet the ones he had been with tended to be tender-hearted. The sort that might have cried for an animal right before they slaughtered it. They believed in dignity.
“He would have.” Apollo said, after a moment. “Not for the murder. He was— pious.” Ah, a worshipper. Those made good bedfellows. They were always so eager. “And I do think he held some fancy for the wind.” Scandalous. He straightened. “I do not wish to speak about this.” It was all said with a distinct air of finality. He was spoiled, Apollo was. The King’s favored son. The mortals’ favorite God. The only man Artemis could stand. Once, Dionysus was envious of him. But the mortals had a saying: heavy is the head that wears the crown. And Apollo’s was heavier than most. “I am sorry about the Pythia. I do not usually allow one so young, but she had the gift and…”
And the previous one had died, so his hands had been tied. Dionysus had had his own hands tied once or twice, too. Like when he had been forced to accept that his grapes really did grow best in full light. It was never easy for a God to admit that even they were not all-powerful. Certain things were out of everyone’s control. “Ah, it’s alright. Better that way, anyway, keeps everyone out of the Temple.”
“Is it not to your liking?”
“I prefer open space; you know that.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” Apollo had a very soft voice, gentle. He imagined that if Artemis had had smaller breasts they could even be confused for the other. As it was, she was very shapely (pity that she would remain a virgin for eternity) and Apollo was very much not. “Why did you agree? To share the Temple?”
“Why did you offer?”
Silence reigned. Then: “I held your body in my arms. I buried it at my temple, where I could be certain that the faith of my followers would piece it back together. Who else could it have possibly been?” He sounded genuinely baffled about it.
Dionysus had never really thought that far, either. Just… someone else. Anyone else. He’d said— “There are many who would love to have the honor.”
“Yes. None of whom I offered it to.”
And, hell, it might as well have been a love confession. The thing about Apollo was that he was very… factual. He said something if he meant it and only then, and it was all delivered with the same precise tone. It was the truth, he knew it was the truth, and he was trying to ensure that anyone who listened knew it, too. He was a difficult conversationalist due to it—he could be charming when needed but it was rarely ever needed—and they had butted heads over it more than once. This, though? He knew he had been the ultimate choice, but never would he have guessed he was the only one being considered. Ha! Take that, Hermes.
“I’m flattered.” he said, and found that it was true. “Really. Does that make me your favorite then?”
“No,” Apollo replied, “that will always be Artemis. And then Hermes. Perhaps third favorite.”
That was still better than nothing. “How does everyone else rank?” he wondered.
“Athena, Hephaestus, and Ares do not,” came the immediate answer, “but I suppose Aphrodite could be considered the fourth.”
Aphrodite was not among the number of Zeus’ children—the only one in the council to not have a direct relation to him at all, seeing as the rest were his siblings and children—but still she was part of the family. “Athena doesn’t, but Aphrodite does?”
“Aphrodite has an appreciation for the finer, prettier things in life. I do not think Athena appreciates anything at all.” he frowned. “Except, perhaps, her own grandiosity.”
“You appreciate your own grandiosity.”
“Indeed. I also believe credit is given where credit is due, and Athena enjoys taking credit for things she did not create. Hubris is often the undoing of mortals. I do not see why it should be any different for us Gods.”
“Is this about the domain thing again?” Half a millennia ago, or something like that, some poet had mistakenly called Athena the goddess of knowledge. Said poet had then gotten very famous among the pious, prompting the humans to associate the Goddess of Wisdom with knowledge. Prideful as she was, Athena took to the title as if it had always been hers, and the actual God of Knowledge was still annoyed about it.
“She could have corrected them. I would have.”
“We know.” Dionysus said, for lack of anything better. Then, because he would always be one to give into his impulses, he reached out to thread a lock of Apollo’s hair around his finger. “You never change your form.”
“I have no interest in doing so.” Dionysus still remembered when he and Artemis actually appeared as twins, before Artemis traded blonde hair for black in the name of camouflaging in the dark of night. Apollo had always stayed stubbornly blond like his mother, with deep-hued eyes like his father. Dionysus had never been able to decide if they were brown or very dark blue. He didn’t know why he cared.
Just that he had changed forms many, many times over the years. Sometimes he appeared as a contemporary to his fellow younger gods—long haired and beardless—and other times he resembled his father. Not purposefully; he did not have as much control over his form as Aphrodite did, and likely never would. “Probably for the best,” he agreed, “I don’t think Aphrodite would appreciate it if you did.”
Because it was well known on Olympus, and likely among the mortals, that the prettiest of the Gods were the both of them. It was a wonder that they had never fallen into bed (and if they ever did, Dionysus wanted an invite. Just to watch.) though maybe they were both too vain for it. He imagined neither of them was fond of the idea that a child born from them might turn out to be prettier than either.
“No, most likely not.”
“What about the elders? How do they rank?”
“Poseidon, then Hestia. My mother above any Olympian, of course. The rest do not rank. And you?”
“Well… Hephaestus, Hermes, then Aphrodite. Maybe you at fourth, and Artemis at fifth. I don’t think Athena and Ares rank for me, either. The elders… Demeter, I suppose. I’ve never actually thought about it.” He didn’t really interact with them, he didn’t say. Didn’t have to, considering how often Apollo had to barge in and wake him up for council affairs. He’d always wondered why, of course, but had never dared to ask. “Would you like wine? I have it on good authority—my own, naturally—that it exceeds all expectations.”
Apollo pulled a leg up on the chaise and rested his head on it. A very mortal position. “No,” he decided. “I feel better already. Thank you, Dionysus.”
Dionysus nodded. It felt very odd, suddenly, uncomfortable. But he steeled himself and said, “Well, then you will just have to sit there and watch me drink.”
So that is what they did. Dionysus enjoyed drinking. It’s pleasurable in ways that had nothing to do with his usual brand of ecstasy and everything to do with the taste of his drink. This wine was old, the taste deepened. He found it simply orgasmic.
Apollo didn’t look away once.