Aeolus had heard the stories of the fall of Olympus. He had heard the tales of the Dark One laying siege to the majestic pillars atop the mountain of the gods. He had heard of Dionysus and his descent into the bowels of insanity.
Aeolus had heard the stories.
But nothing could prepare him for the site before him. In a cell within the foreboding walls of the Asylum, he looked upon the once majestic god of wine and merriment... and was horrified. Nothing he could have heard would have prepared him for this. Nothing.
Bound in a straightjacket, the god sat almost motionless in the corner, his head hung in severe depression. His once long, noble tresses had been cropped short on his head - his hair reduced to a short buzzcut and his beard merely stubble. Dark circles gathered under his bloodshot eyes as pools of tears welled up within them, running down his cheek. They were not tears of laughter... they were tears of sorrow.
Aeolus turned his gaze from the weeping god, unable to look at the figure he remembered to be so regal. "I cannot do this, Medea," he whispered fiercely. "I cannot approach him. Not like this."
Medea rolled her eyes, holding the god's old goblet in her hand. "Men..." she sighed with disdain, strolling over to where the god sat.
Kneeling down beside him, the sorceress slowly said his name, getting the god's attention. Gazing upon her, perhaps for the first time, Dionysus' face contorted in further sorrow as a question managed to escape from his lips.
"Wh-who are y-you?" he stammered, returning to his crying.
"I am Medea," she answered stoically. "I am a sorceress, daughter of Aeetes of Colchis and servant of the Hecate."
At the mention of the goddess, Dionysus sobbed louder and harder. At the entrance of the room, Aeolus cringed slightly, unable to accept this tragic turn of events.
Slowly, Medea turned to her side, picking the never-empty goblet of Dionysus from the floor where she had placed it. Gingerly, she lifted the cup to the god's lips, holding his head as some of the liquid forced itself into his mouth.
As the sweet ambrosial nectar glided down the deity's throat, his demeanor seemed to change.
For a moment, the tears stopped flowing from his eyes. For a moment, a slight smirk curled at the corner of his mouth. For a moment, his face lost the contortion of melancholy. For a moment, the godly twinkle returned to his eye.
...but only for a moment.
And, in a wake of that moment of joviality, the sorrow collapsed upon the god once more, crushing his spirit like a small flower bud under the weight of a ton of bricks. And Dionysus bawled harder than ever.
Medea looked to Aeolus in confusion. The lord of the winds merely shook his head in resignation. Again, Medea raised the divine cup to the god's lips.
"No more!" he cried, shaking his head violently. "I cannot bear it! The memories... the memories! Too much to bear!"
Medea placed the cup down, uncertain of what to do next. Finally, she touched the god's shoulder and asked him a question. "Dionysus... who is the Dark One?"
The sobs returned to his eyes as he shook his head in an almost convulsing manner. "C-c-c-can't say..." he wept harder. "Can't!"
"Can't?" Medea asked, her voice belying her growing lack of patience. "Or won't?"
"D-dion's..." the god moaned.
"Dion's?" the sorceress asked, cocking her head slightly to the side. "I beg your pardon?"
"Sh-shrine," the god stammered out. "M-mine."
"Very well," she said, rising, taking the goblet with her. Crossing the room, she stood by Aeolus, folding her arms in from of her. "He is too far gone," she said stoically. "He will tell us nothing."
"But he has told us something..." Aeolus said pensively, bringing himself to look over at the pale shadow of the god he once knew. "Come," he motioned for Medea to follow him, as he stepped out into the hallway to join the rest of the Pantheon.
“What has he told us, Aeolus?” the sorceress asked as the door closed behind her. “Dion’s? A shrine? What sort of information is that?”
“Dion’s?” Morpheus responded in a lackadaisical sing-song manner. “I know where that is.”
“Indeed?” Aeolus asked, peering at the god of sleep with great interest.
“Yes,” he nodded, his head lolling a bit as he did so. “It’s not so much a ‘shrine,’ though as it is a temple…”
“A temple…” Echo responded eerily.
“How so?” Pandora spoke up, clutching her box tightly against her chest. “Were not all the temples destroyed long ago? Before the modern era?”
Morpheus laughed a lazy chuckle and looked the human in the eye. “Ah, but one must adapt, mustn’t one? In order to survive, we gods needed cunning most of all. We needed worship. Athena erected a library. Aphrodite, a whorehouse. Asclepius, a hospital. And, Dionysus…”
“A bar,” Stheno replied, her hair hissing beneath her veil.
Morpheus smiled and nodded to her. “What better way to worship the god of wine?” he responded.
“Very well,” Aeolus responded with a decided air about him. “We shall visit the lord Dionysus’ temple and there take our next steps towards finding the Dark One.”
Medea turned to go, but as she started walking, a heavy black hand fell upon her shoulder. Glancing behind, she beheld the imposing form of Aeolus, holding out his other hand towards her.
The woman glowered at him, her grip tightening around the goblet in her hand. “A problem, Aeolus?”
“We must pay tribute to that last of the Pantheon,” Aeolus said, beckoning for Medea’s cup. “We must all drink from his goblet.”
Reluctantly, the sorceress placed her chalice into the waiting hand of the wing king. Taking a long, reverent drink, Aeolus then passed the mug onto Stheno, who did the same and so on until the cup once again rested with Medea. Looking around at her teammates, she put on a mock smile and drank from the cup. As she pulled it from her lips, she said bitingly, “Hail, Dionysus,” turned on her heels and marched toward the exit.
“Perhaps you should wait for our escort!” Pandora cried after her.
“Let her go,” Aeolus said, holding out a hand to stop the woman. “She will find her own way back to the Argos…”
