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The Perfectionists

Chapter 14

Dionysus

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Zeus grunts, lowers the book. Who is Hera talking to? Not Ganymede. And certainly not one of the countless nymphs who disport themselves on the slopes of Mount Olympus, and of whom Hera is endlessly (though perhaps not unreasonably) jealous. Can it be Hestia? Doubtful. Hera acts as if she weren't even there, though Hestia can be found in her usual seat, at the center of the Great Hall, tending the sacred fire. Right where she's always been. Of course she hardly speaks or moves anymore, just sits there day and night, staring into the flames, with the occasional teardrop running down her cheek. Kinda creepy actually... it's no wonder Hera chooses to ignore her. So no, it can't be Hestia.

Is it possible that they have a visitor? Who in Hades would be visiting them now? Maybe one of the kids?

Zeus slams the book down onto an end table, stretches lazily, like a great muscular cat, and pulls himself up off of the recliner. Then he straps on a pair of golden sandals and pads into the other room to see who in Hades his lovely wife could be having such a good time with.

It turns out to be a slender young man wearing rose colored glasses. Seeing him, the boy flashes a dangerously intoxicating smile. Zeus smiles back, broadly, recognizing him in spite of the trendy new face he's wearing. How could he not? When in doubt, check the eyes. No matter what they do to their faces, the eyes are always the same.

"Hello, father", Dionysus laughs, his voice half-mocking, half seductive. It's the same intimate, devastating charm he directs at everybody, friend or foe or stranger. This, too, is characteristic.

Zeus drops the smile and glowers at his prodigal offspring, hoping to darken the room with the power of his stare. Trying to conjure a thunderclap or two, a crackle of electricity, a gust of chill air, to lend authenticity to his pretended disapproval. But he's not a very good actor, and he's out of practice with storms. The lights flicker slightly, almost imperceptibly. And somewhere off in the distance a low, brief, half-hearted rumble erupts, as if the sky has mild indigestion.

Dionysus raises an eyebrow.

"So", Zeus snarls menacingly, trying to make up in bluster for what he finds he is lacking in special effects, "Bored, are we? Slumming it not as much fun as it once was?" His attempt to behave angrily is backfiring, making it even harder to keep from laughing. A corner of his mouth quirks involuntarily. "So human parties are finally losing their fascination, and you've come back to us for a palate cleanse, is that it?"

Dionysus shrugs. "Oh, you know, I never tire of parties. Or after parties. Or after after parties. Raging night and day, that's my style. Sleep when you're dead, right? And we never die so... you know, never sleep, basically." He winks. "It's not me, it's the humans who get tired. Poor things, even the most aggressively self-destructive can't keep up with me I'm afraid. But they seem to have a lot of fun trying. A frightening amount of fun, really. And they've come up with some very interesting new drugs in the past hundred years or so. Stuff that'll just wreck you. Unless you're immortal, of course, in which case... you know, you can't be wrecked. At least not permanently. Like to try some?"

Zeus tries to maintain his scowl, but it breaks, and he roars with laughter instead, tears squeezing from the corners of his eyes. He picks up his son in a big bear hug, then drops him back to his feet and slaps him on the back. For an instant Dionysus looks as if he's about to lose his footing, but he recovers quickly and grins at his father. "Although I have to warn you Zeus, this is likely to be a larger party than just the three of us..."

Hera, who has been watching all of this with an expression of affectionate amusement, sighs heavily. "Oh I doubt it. I mean other than Ganymede, and some of the nymphs, it's just us at this point, Di. Even the Muses have gone to ground."

"There is still Hestia, dear", Zeus reminds her gently.

"Oh right, Hestia", Hera responds acerbically, rolling her eyes. "She's real big on parties."

"Umm... yeah, what's going on with her?" Dionysus asks in an undertone. "She used to be the one I could count on to care for whoever was having a bad trip. 'Cause when you're having a party, you know there's always somebody having a bad trip, right? So I'd bring them to Hestia, and she'd talk to them in her sweet, comforting voice, and give them tea, and baklava, and have them sit with her and stare into the sacred flames, and they'd be fine.

But bad trips are only temporary anyway. They don't last forever. And it was never Hestia having them, she's more the den mother/designated driver type. Only now, the look on her face... it's like she's living in one. Kind of ironic, don't you think? Is she like that all the time?"

Zeus nods soberly. "Yes."

"I dunno", Hera says with a shudder, "it gives me the creeps. I try not to think about it anymore, since there's nothing we can do for her anyway..."

"We haven't been able to figure out what's upsetting her", Zeus explains. "She doesn't exactly respond to questioning."

Dionysus shakes his head, blinks several times in quick succession. "I see. Well", he continues, "The truth, if you must know, is that I've invited a few people. So if you want to do any relaxing, now's the time. Because in a very short while, it's going to get apocalyptic in here."

His parents raise their eyebrows at each other. They both know, from long experience, that any statement made by Dionysus in reference to a past, present, or future party, no matter how hyperbolic it might sound in the moment, is invariably an understatement. And that it doesn't help to ask for details. Such as who, exactly, he might have invited. He'll only shrug and say "Oh, just a few friends." A Dionysus party is an unstoppable force, best to just go with it. Accept the inevitable and try not to worry about consequences and you might even have fun.

"So", Zeus asks, changing the subject, "You've been keeping yourself busy?"

Hera smiles. "He's been entertaining himself by playing the rock star. And then faking his own suicide, and reinventing himself as another famous rock star, and doing that until he gets tired of it, and faking his own death again. And then reinventing himself... you get the idea. Lather, rinse, repeat. How many have you been again sweetie? So far anyway...?"

Dionysus shrugs, grinning guilelessly at them. "I've lost count." Then, his expression suddenly serious: "I'd like to see if I can get any kind of response from Hestia. We'll need her help at this thing if people overdo it... which I guarantee that they will." He winks, pivots on his heel, and strides out of his parents' suite, making for the Great Hall. They watch him go with something very like concern on their faces.

Hestia is sitting in the center of the great hall, the eternal flame flickering brightly, reflected in her dark eyes. The same low, three legged stool, the same sensible clothing, the same pot of tea and platter of baklava and assortment of mismatched clay and china cups, just like he remembers. Except that her clothes these days are a modern(ish) variant of what they once were. Not fashionable, mind you, like Dionysus' clothes (he can't help it, he's the one starting the fashion trends to begin with, half the time). But modern.

He's always loved her. Her gentleness, her steadiness a counterpoint to his extremes. To the raw, uncompromising, vicious urgency of his need. His relentless attempts to break everything wide open. Her domesticity a foil for his wildness. He kneels on the floor next to her, places a hand on her shoulder, seeks her eyes with his own. But even as he meets them, she stares right through him, as if he weren't there.

"What's wrong, Hest?" he asks softly, as if speaking to a badly wounded but dangerously unpredictable animal. Seeing her now, up close like this, he feels the bottom dropping out. Yes. Something is wrong. Really wrong.

"Hest? Where are you?", he asks again. "Where have you gone?" The fire dances in her eyes, but she doesn't respond. On impulse (and when has he ever refrained from doing anything impulsive?) he hugs her, tightly, feeling the warmth of her body, the beat of her immortal, perpetual-motion-machine heart against his own. She's there. Right there, and yet... not. She doesn't resist his hug, but neither does she return it. After a moment he lets her go, rocks back onto his heels to look at her.

Nothing about her gaze has changed. She stares into space, not at him, but at something he can't see, something beyond even the fleeting portents revealed by the eternal flame. A tear slips down her cheek, showing up oddly black in the flickering shadow-and-light of the fire. He wipes it away with his hand. She doesn't flinch. She doesn't react in any way.

His fingers feel warm and sticky. He looks down at them. They're smudged with darkness. This is not the saltwater of a teardrop. This is blood.

Blood tears.

Dionysus has tried every drug imaginable; or almost every drug. And he's brought all of them here with him. Because the best way, the only way he knows to reveal the truth is to throw the lie wide open. To rip off the skin of sweetness and light and taste the bitter blood beneath. To shred the veil between the living and the dead. And every single one of these drugs, even the worst ones, even the ones that can flay and gut and maim and kill, rip the mind wide open so that it never closes again, or lure the user so far into oblivion that he can never quite return, even these can be used to help him, immortal as he is, to destroy the lie. For himself, and for his guests as well.

The only one he hasn't brought, the only one he's afraid of, the only one that he won't touch is the one that brings the tears.

Blood tears.

Like the ones now pooling at the edges of Hestia's eyes.

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©2018 Bennett Italia, all rights reserved.

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It's National Novel Writing Month! Along with sixteen other freewriters from @freewritehouse I've accepted the challenge of writing an entire novel in one month (the others are: @amelin; @botefarm; @felt.buzz; @grow23; @improv; @kaelci; @kaerpediem; @linnyplant; @mariannewest; @ntowl; @stinawog; @carolkean; @byn; @kipswolfe; @aislingcronin; @nonsowrites).

Each of us must write 50,000 words total, which breaks down to 1,667/day, in the month of November.

This is not as easy as it sounds. Many experienced writers take at least a year, sometimes three or four, and sometimes much longer, to write a novel, and here I'm expecting myself, a newbie, to do it in one month. But I'm doing it anyway, because: 1. it's fun; and 2. it's helping me to become a better writer, which is really the point. My intent in doing this is to push my own envelope, and... yeah, let's just say that plan is working. Almost too well.

Word count for this chapter is 1682

Thank you for checking out this ongoing story, I hope you've enjoyed it!

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For a chance to WIN SteemBasicIncome, read and comment on my #freewritemadness posts For more information visit the @freewritehouse

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I'm dispensing with the freewrite prompts from here on out in this NaNo novel, but...

*Come take part in the festivities at @freewritehouse! Lots of contests and other fun stuff for both writers and fans *

Many thanks to the incomparable @mariannewest for hosting these wonderful daily freewrites :) https://steemit.com/freewrite/@mariannewest/day-399-5-minute-freewrite-friday-prompt-beast

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Horizontal rulers courtesy @cryptosharon

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