Dionysus’s frustration grew. For a moment, he just hung there and ground his teeth so hard his jaw hurt.
Then he took a deep breath.
“I’m sorry, Hermes.”
There was a long beat of silence.
“You’ve got this, Dionysus.”
The god nodded and tried again. He fisted his hands, tightened his core, and swung. Once he was upright, he held out his arms for balance. His legs felt wobbly, and his whole body seemed to vibrate with the beat of the winged sandals, but he was on his feet.
“Yes!” he hissed before he lost his balance and fell again. “Fuck. I am done!”
Dionysus used his magic to unlace himself from the sandals. When he did, he crashed to the ground, not realizing that he was no longer positioned over the bed.
“Stupid fucking sandals,” he muttered as he got to his feet and snatched them from the air where they were still fluttering. “How do you make them stop…flying?”
As soon as the words were out of Dionysus’s mouth, the wings stopped flapping.
“Just like that,” said Hermes.
Dionysus glared. “You mean you can tell them to stop flying but you can’t tell them to put me on my feet?”
“Yes,” said Hermes.
“I hate you.”
“Don’t hate me. I’m just the messenger.” Hermes paused and chuckled. “Get it? Because I am the Messenger of the Gods.”
Dionysus glared.
Then he vanished, but not before Hermes shouted after him. “Wait! Take me back to the Underworld!”
Dionysus appeared on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea.
The sun was rising, casting rays of orange and yellow over the calm surface of the water. Always beautiful and mostly warm, it was hard to imagine the evils that took place on the water, but it was a lawless place ruled by a ruthless god.
Dionysus put the sandals on the sandy beach and stepped into them, bearing down as the vines twisted around his feet so they wouldn’t fly out from under him again. When he was ready, he lifted his heels and stuck out his arms to steady himself as he rose into the air, the wings pumping hard and fast.
His heart beat hard in his chest, and sweat beaded across his forehead. Shakily, he lifted his hand to wipe it away before it dripped into his eyes. He would never admit it to Hermes—though he didn’t need to, his struggle was obvious—but fuck, this was hard.
Hermes had always made it look so easy, gliding through the air in a flash of blinding gold light. Dionysus moved at the speed of a snail. At this rate, he’d make it to Thrinacia in a week, and Medusa would be long gone and likely dead.
Gathering his courage, he did as Hermes had instructed, tilting his body forward slightly. He could feel the wind pick up around him as he moved faster over the ocean, the colors blending together into a seamless shade of blue. The longer he moved at one speed, the easier it was to accelerate, and soon he felt as though he were sailing.
He started to laugh, filled with triumph, and then he lost his balance and tumbled into the sea, inhaling a mouthful of salty water that burned his throat as he surfaced. How was he supposed to get to his feet again? There were no rocks or islands for miles, and time was running out.
“Fuck!” he screamed as he wiped his eyes. “I fucking hate everything!”
He moved to float on his back and stuck his feet into the air. The wings on Hermes’s scandals fluttered wildly and Dionysus found himself being carried through the air upside down with his head in the ocean.
He tried to get to his feet, but he struggled to breathe as salt water went up his nose and into his mouth. The drier the wings became, the higher he rose until he was finally out of the ocean, but by then, he was too tired to try getting upright, and he resigned himself to simply hanging there.
Until he noticed a high wave rushing his way.
“Gods fucking dammit,” he said, his strength suddenly renewed, but when he found he could not right himself, he resorted to shouting. “I know you can fucking hear me!” he yelled at the shoes. “Fly higher, you idiots!”
But they did not listen.
The first wave hit, barreling into him with such force, it stole his breath. In the short reprieve before another came, he yelled again.
“You’re useless! Just like your owner!”
The second wave was jarring, and he could not hold his breath through it, the water burning as it slipped down his throat and into his lungs. He coughed violently, unprepared for the next wave, and as the water surrounded him, he knew for certain that he was going to die. It did not matter that he was a god and could heal on his own. The sea was all-consuming, and he could not breathe in this dark and violent place, could not take the pain searing his chest and swelling in his throat—and then suddenly, a strange calm came over him, and he felt nothing.
For a few sweet moments, he was simply…numb.
But then he surfaced as Hermes’s sandals carried him above the fierce waves. Dionysus inhaled a painful breath, choking as he vomited water. He wanted to curse the shoes, but his throat hurt too bad to speak, so he just hung there as the ocean churned beneath his head, and he fell into unconsciousness.
It was a horrific smell that roused Dionysus. When he opened his eyes, he came face-to-face with the cockeyed gaze of a sheep.