The spirit of Dionysus is near.

His breath rustles through the leaves of the maple tree, and his laugh is heard in the twigs that crack under our feet. We are in the undergrowth, in simple linen chitons, and we have lost our way. Henry gives each one a thyrsus entwined with grapes and ivy. “He does not need our prayers,” he proclaims. “He wants our yells.”

Camilla, with a black vine wreath in her golden hair, whirls in a dance, murmuring lines in the Ionian dialect. Francis, his hands shaking, tries to feed her a cup of thick, anise-scented liquor.

Henry comes closer. The cold wood of the vine-wreathed staff glides from your chest to your belly, causing your body to shiver. “The Maenads could tear a bull to pieces with their hands”, his lips barely brush yours, “but this will do for us.”

Behind you, Charles lets out a wild howl, mimicking the piping of the Satyrs' flutes, while Francis rips the wreath from Camilla's hair. The grapes pop, covering her face with dark-crimson juice. Her giggle rises—the sound resonating through the branches, as though a crowd of people is responding from the heart of the woods.

“Look!” Charles shouts. “There—you can see the god!”

Francis falls to his knees, his nails scratching the priming and pulling up clumps of soil. “The roots!” The young man gasps.

Someone (it could be Camilla, or maybe Charles) grabs your hair and jerks your head back. Ahh. Francis rasps in your ear softly, “Drink. Right Now.” You realise it's not about wine; it's about viscosity—a lingering essence reminiscent of masculine origins. But Henry's lips reach yours first—his tongue passes you a sip of the burning drink. Opium, perhaps, although the taste is more iron than resin.

And then we collapse into a tangle of bodies—knotted together with arms and legs, with vines, with catatonic shrieks and laughter. Someone bites, someone tears fabric, someone hums in a hoarse voice, slipping into a cry.

“Do you feel it? Yes? Please,” Henry whispers, his lips grazing your shoulder. “He doesn't come. He is us.”