Probably for Liber anyway. Good one.
Stubby fingers worked at the crystal seal. He’d barely fixed his beady gaze upon the text when a trumpeter flew into the gilded chamber and blasted a hurried version of Hail to the Father.
Guards, nymphs, and courtiers snapped to rigid attention. Bacchus knew he should’ve moved faster to pay his respects to the god of all gods, to whom Bacchus’s own father, and every other deity, bowed. The room spun. Reaching out, he steadied himself. Yes, he definitely had finished eight wineskins. Still, a cold tingle ran up Bacchus’s spine. Lightning flashed, thunder shook him to the core. His breath caught in his throat. Sniffing the air, he noted the scent of frankincense and sandalwood. As if greatness had a smell. Then again, maybe it did.
The Father’s union with the Mother created every living thing in the Universe. In a tidal wave of snowy robes and untamed, silver hair, He flowed into Bacchus’s great room. At the flick of His hand, the fanfare silenced.
Bacchus executed a deep bow, and as he rose, listed to one side. He caught himself against the arm of his throne. Curses. He’d chipped a nail. “And to what do we owe this great honor, my lord?”
“Good afternoon, Bacchus.” The Father glanced around the scattered floor pillows and the sycophants lounging on them. “I need a few moments of your time. Alone.”
“So you aren’t here to see Liber, then?” Bacchus turned to dismiss his entourage, but no one had waited for the mere god of intoxication’s permission to disperse. An implied request from the Father carried more weight than a direct order from anyone else in the Palace of Light. Oh sure, when she felt ornery, the Mother could contradict the Father, but only She dared to do so. Bacchus gave the standard answer, “Thy will be done.”
The wizened deity motioned to a chaise. “Please, have a seat.”
Bacchus staggered to the lounge.
Storm clouds above the Father’s usually glowing brow made a poor show of hiding a scowl. He paced, a very human compulsion no god engaged in, much less The Lord of All Lords. “I trust you received the scroll from the Council.”
“About that.” Bacchus swallowed the lump in his throat. “There was a bit of a mix up with the post this morning.”
“No matter. I would rather tell you this in person anyhow.” The Father clasped his hands.
It must be very bad news, then. A heaviness in his core rooted him to the spot. Words failed him, and his mouth ran dry. He reached for his wineskin. Gods damn it. It was empty.
The Father’s chest heaved. “I will not insult you by being indirect. Since Siddhartha joined the Council, he has done some excellent thinking on the sorrows of the world. Please understand he didn’t target you specifically.”
“Target me?” Bacchus rolled his eyes. “Am I being summoned before a firing squad?”
The Father furrowed his brow. “No, no. Not literally, anyway. Has Siddhartha talked to you about his premises regarding the sorrows?”
Bacchus waved. “Yes, he’s tried several times, bless him. His manner of thinking is so far beyond me. My lord, you know I do whatever I can do to ease the sorrows of the world. I will admit I’m limited by my inferior mind, but I do try.”
“No one questions your dedication, Bacchus. The debate has arisen over your methods.”
“But my methods have withstood millennia, and believe me, the Puritan Era was no walk in the park for me and my devotees, but we’ve endured. I have my purpose. Human life is fraught with misery. My gifts provide respite from that misery.”
“I understand. No one entered into this decision lightly. Mother is on the warpath. She has always been fond of your company.”
Since Bacchus’s birth, there had been those who argued he was not a proper god, but a demigod, since his mother had been mortal. Though, did he not deserve the status of god? Erupting out of Zeus’s thigh had been no romp through Elysium for the newborn Bacchus. “Am I finally being demoted?”
The Father exhaled, white eyebrows knitted, and sat next to Bacchus. “It is worse than that, my child. The Council has decided Desire does indeed seem to be the root of all suffering. Siddhartha has proven his assertion beyond a shadow of a doubt. Since Desire—well, it is central to everything you do. Therefore, we have decided we must revoke your divine power and disband your following. There is no way around it.”
Bacchus reeled. How dare the Council do this to him and behind his back? He hadn’t heard a word about these discussions. True, he held the rank of lesser god, but a god of any rank was still a god. Why had no one come to him? “So just like that I’m out on my ear?”
“We did debate this for over two centuries. It was not a snap decision; I assure you. And Siddhartha argued for you hardest of all. He deems you necessary to ‘the joyful participation in the sorrows of the world.’”
“Who argued against me?”
“We shouldn’t get into that.” The Father shook a hand, his snowy locks spilling over his shoulders.
“It was Discordia, wasn’t it?” Well that smarmy, contrary, scheming little bitch had better not cross his path anytime soon. “She could use a good buggering to loosen up that tight ass of hers.”
“Easy, now.”
Bacchus wanted to scream at the Father, but he dare not. He reached for his wineskin, remembered it was empty, jumped up, and dashed to the banquet table. With shaky hands, he threw aside platters of grapes, a half-consumed roasted suckling pig, and a pudding of figs and ambrosia before he found a wineskin. He drank greedily.
Ages had passed since anyone had attacked Bacchus outright, and he’d always managed to pull his pretty, fleshy bottom out of the fire. Once he had invoked his female form, Bacchus draped herself across the Father’s lap with feline grace. Her golden hair spilled over masculine thighs. She wound a long, slender finger around a lock of the Father’s beard. “Isn’t there anything you can do to help me, my lord?”
A flash of craving broke the Lord of All Lord’s mask of gravity.
Silently, Bacchus summoned her two most fetching nymphs, Maia and Saraesa. The lithe women fell at the Father’s feet and stroked Bacchus’s voluptuous curves. Tinkling strains of laughter resonated in a seductive chorus, curling around the would-be lovers. Maia and Saraesa leaned into each other, and their lips melted together.
The Father licked his lips, breath quickening. Bacchus had Him enthralled. Saraesa stripped off Maia’s gauzy wrap and pulled the nymph’s pert breasts to her mouth.
A low growl rumbled in the Father’s throat. “Enough.”
The nymphs disappeared in a flash of stardust, leaving silence in their wake. Bacchus reverted at once to his male body.
“This is exactly to what the Council refers. There has to be more to life than pleasures of the flesh.”
Chastened, Bacchus hung his head. “I agree, my lord, but life cannot flourish either without passion or ecstasy.”
“I used to believe that, but now I see this is where we have gone wrong. Many of our children lead happy lives of sobriety and abstinence.”
“Happy or uneventful? There is a difference.”
The Father rose. “I am truly sorry, Bacchus, my love.”
“There’s nothing you can do to help me?”
“It is not my decision to make. The Council has spoken.”
“Every decision is yours to make.”
“You know as well as I, that is not how it works. As of now, your powers have been revoked. I am sorry. I will leave you to your packing.” The Father turned toward the grand hall exit.
Bacchus caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror. As usual, his reflection drew