Work Text:
There was a reason why everyone in the Underworld was dead. Aside from the obvious reasons, of course, a mortal who has known nothing but light (even at nightfall, the moon still reflects the sun one so dearly misses) cannot survive long in a place consumed by true darkness. The only light sources in Tartarus were the sparse lamps that held flickering flames of unnatural hues (your body could distinguish this synthetic light and was not satisfied) and the faint glow of the souls that were swept away by the River Styx.
After having beaten up enough of the dead to make you feel quite dead yourself, you slumped against the gate that led to your next inevitable battle. Your spear tumbled out of your hands as you sank to the floor, your labored breaths doing little to stifle the incessant wailing of the damned. It seemed that killing things twice was much harder than killing them the first time, and you were more than tired of it all.
You missed home. You missed Apollo-borne sunlight. You missed your small coastal village that was embedded in a cliffside that overlooked the vast ocean, and the sea breeze that brought salty air to begin your mornings. Tartarus, out of all the regions of the Underworld, was most rank with musk and sulfur. It was the final stage of decay, the livor mortis with the Styx as Hades’ blood, and it reeked.
You drew in a shaky breath as you tried to hold in the sob that was building up in your chest. Just then, you felt a heavy hand on your shoulder. In your emotional distress, you almost forgot your one source of companionship in this hellhole—none other than the god of wine himself. You would have preferred someone more stable and not a laissez-faire drunkard, but then again, the rest of the Greek Pantheon was rather intimidating and seemed to see you as more of a plaything if anything. The “next little Odysseus” they jokingly called you, as if you had the strength, experience, or willpower necessary to even come close to being on par with the king of Ithaca. And of course, they knew that.
The title was condescending, almost patronizing when paired with the way they’d ruffle your hair, or when Aphrodite made you try on all sorts of needlessly elaborate, hardly battle-worthy, garments in front of her, or when Ares had you spar with his best men as “training” only to insist on mending your wounds himself (with haphazardly-placed bandages and a few kisses to your sore muscles as if it would ease the pain), or when Zeus brought you to his bedchambers to ensure you got “proper rest” before your long journey, though you could hardly rest when one large hand was holding your legs apart while the other trailed its fingers down your thighs…
Dionysus seemed to hold you in a higher regard than an object, but then again, he also was the most human of the gods. And he seemed to like you well enough to agree to venture into the depths of Tartarus with you to retrieve Hades’ son when the other gods wouldn’t dare get their hands so dirty. And now he was attempting to comfort you as his hand moved from your shoulder to your back.
“Aw, come on, don’t give up now! We’ve gotten so far. Just a few more gates and we’ll snatch up Zag and get both of you out of here.”
You were starting to grow tired of his incessant optimism. You wished for once that he would have sympathy for your misery.
“I can’t. Everything hurts, it’s dark, I’m tired, I miss home—“
That last word choked you up—home. Even before you entered the Underworld, you hadn’t been home for a long time. You were starting to forget what your village looked like, how your childhood house was arranged, the faces of your neighbors and local shopkeepers. Had you been on Olympus that long? For how long have you only known the gods’ company? It was then that a sickening thought struck you: if you were forgetting home, had home forgotten you? Was anyone even looking for you anymore? Had they ever been?
Before you knew it, there were hot tears streaming down your cheeks. You had promised yourself before the journey that you wouldn’t cry. You wouldn’t give the satisfaction of your weakness to the gods, which you knew for certain were watching your every move, just waiting for their little toy to break. But the thought of an unfamiliar home broke everything inside you. You weren’t Odysseus; how could you be when you didn’t have a home to return to? There wasn’t a loving partner waiting on the shores of your kingdom that could fuel your will. There was only the suffocating heat of Tartarus or the cold affection of Olympus.
So, you cried, shamelessly drowning in self-pity. Dionysus seemed startled by your tears, before his ever-present grin finally faded and his expression melted into something softer. You would hazard to call it sympathy, but you didn’t think the gods were capable of expressing such an emotion.
“Oh, you poor thing.”
A gentle hand guided you to a firm chest, and soon his arms wrapped around you in a tight embrace. Being this close to him, you noticed that he didn’t smell so much of alcohol as he did of sun-ripened grapes and nectar. It didn’t subdue your emotions, but instead encouraged you to relax your guard enough to fully let your emotions out. You couldn’t contain the tears now, even if you wanted to, and perhaps that was a part of the god of revelry’s powers.
“This all isn’t very fair, is it?”
He squeezed you tighter as you sobbed into his chest.
“You’ve been very brave about all this, you know. But you can let it out now. I’ve got you.”
Dionysus began to hum softly as he gently rubbed circles against your back. He could hardly carry a tune, but the rumbling in his chest was enough to calm you. It was a little embarrassing, considering you had always preached self-reliance and you hated turning to the gods for assistance (especially since they considered you helpless most of the time), but Dionysus’ aid felt different. It didn’t seem like he was trying to belittle you or make you seem helpless. He was gentle, sure, but it was because it was what you needed rather than what he wanted.
As your crying died down, Dionysus used one hand to conjure up a goblet filled with a fragrant wine. He slowly brought it up to your lips, but he didn’t force it down your throat.
“Now I know it doesn’t seem like it, but this will make you feel a lot better. I’m gonna need you to trust me, ok?”
He asked for your permission first. You can’t remember the last time someone did that. You nodded, and he broke out into a soft smile.
“Atta’ girl.”
Smooth, sweet liquid soon flowed past your lips and pooled in your mouth. The wine wasn’t heavy with alcohol; it was light and refreshing and seemed to fill you with warmth and strength once you finally swallowed. Your aches dissipated, and color came back to your cheeks; it was as if liquid life had been poured into you. Dionysus’ smile widened as he saw the visible change in your countenance. He reached over and held your face between his palms, and he looked at you as if you were the sweetest of wines.
“There she is.”
He gently squished your cheeks together playfully.
“Wine isn’t just good for getting drunk, though it is rather good at that.”
The corners of your mouth twitched up into a slight smile, much to the delight of Dionysus, who laughed before pressing a slight kiss to your forehead.
“You are just so beautiful, you know that? I mean, you’re basically glowing even in the dark pits of Tartarus.”
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't seem to find it in you to stop smiling. Dionysus gave you one last squeeze before finally letting go of you, though his warmth and scent still lingered.
“Now let’s get on with it and find Zag. Maybe the two of you together can put the gods in their place.”