The Beast Of Both Worlds: A Drunk Mythology 2 Him Mortal

It was too hard to miss all the volcanic eruptions, the forges dying out, and for good measure, the scattered rain shower of periodic table elements. Some weirdly shaped constellation also took to the night sky, a trademark Olympian way of making it official.

Needless to say, it wasn't a very good time for mankind. It's Tartarus on earth whenever the divinities bicker, and considering how the actual clash with Ares was many times worse, everyone just felt kind of relieved. After sparking the gladiatorial match of the century, Aphrodite can now inspire more conflicts elsewhere, start Trojan War II or whatever else whimsy hit her on Tuesday. It was just another season in the long-drawn, melodramatic saga of Keeping Up with the Pantheon.

But for the remaining hopeless romantics, the deed was never done. Take Ginrius on precise, the debatable lead of the story who couldn't care less about prophecies and chosen ones. He was simply at that phase where hormones decided everything, barely justified by a wind-up that dated all the way back to his childhood. His duel for a girl's affection raged on, albeit on a smaller, less cataclysmic scale. In fact, considering how he shared a room with his rival, the demiG.o.d he's got for a half-brother, it was safe to say that it's only just begun.

They were at it again one afternoon and the disparity was too obvious. Zacleus was the dead ringer of his father, Zeus, king of the G.o.ds himself: tall, tan, silver-maned, and born with a most shocking personality, pun intended. He was that strong brew you only get by pouring equal parts of mortal and immortal, and then mixing really, really well. If you've seen a younger Theseus or even Heracles in those overpriced vases, you'd get a better comparison.

Ginrius on the other hand was six inches away from decent height, lean without remotely looking mean, and had the overall finish of a greasy cogwheel. He was pale enough to be an underworld townie and his abyss-black mullet didn't do him any favors. Even in the unflattering plot of the Athenian slums, he looked a bit out of place, if not completely mishandled. He was no fighter either, yet for the umpteenth time that week, he refused to retract his stand against a give-or-take force of nature.

"She's not meant for you," Zacleus told his little-big brother, not to console him or anything, but to threaten. "She's basically a G.o.ddess."

Ginrius winced both from the idea and the bruises that covered his face. And if contempt alone could fell G.o.ds, Zacleus would be double-done for. "What does that even mean?"

"She's a demiG.o.d and you're a scrawny human, duh?" Zacleus said as he cracked his fists.

"So what? You're born of G.o.d and mortal yourself—a far more ridiculous concept if you really think about it. Yet here you are, standing tall and representing the bane of all humanity."

A breeze whistled through their shared silence. And then another. Ginrius decided to break the next one with a sigh, and what would eventually trend as a modern day facepalm.

Despite his credentials, Zacleus was not very sharp. Short of even a half-baked return, he struck Ginrius again. The boy flew a spectacular distance before cras.h.i.+ng down the curb, understandably yelping.

"That's different—it's different when the G.o.ds themselves do the choosing!"

Ordinarily, the sneeze of a demiG.o.d was enough to maim—even kill—mortals but for some reason, Ginrius could take them. Maybe it was the amazing power of love, or more of the moody but ever-present human pride; either way, he kept tanking what equated to a clumsy swing of Death's scythe. And when he spoke, he did so with eyes that brimmed with the fires of defiance. Mister Prometheus would be very proud indeed. "If that's really the case, why not let her choose then? Let the G.o.ddess do the choosing, as you so adequately put."

"I don't know… Why do I have a weakling brother like you? Why is the night sky black? Some questions just aren't meant to be answered I guess," Zacleus stupidly said, reconnecting a foot to his brother's jaw.

When Ginrius still recovered, Zacleus steamed past boiling point. It didn't help that his brother had that look in his eyes. The demiG.o.d decided to go all-out for the next strike, sending his other foot to finish the job. Somehow Ginrius managed to parry this time, causing them to flail around like first time dance partners.

It became a ch.o.r.e to watch at that point, with Zacleus unleas.h.i.+ng thunder and Ginrius rising from the ashes. A conclusion would have been nice, but a serenade voice just had to play deus ex machina and break them apart.

Deus ex machina's name was Minea, the local girl next door and incidentally, just cause to the sibling rivalry. Can you blame them though? Prophecies aside, the Greeks were plain bonkers when it came to beauty. It was always about who's more beautiful and who could throw the nastiest curse for being only second. Wars were fought for it and plenty more were waiting to be waged. For better or worse, G.o.ds and mortals shared this common weakness, which was probably why religion was more relatable back then.

Anyway, one look at this chick and you know she might just give Aphrodite a run for her Drachma, what with her flawlessly bronze skin, zephyr eyes, and pure gild hair amongst a lottery of brunettes and dirty blondes. She stood before the boys in a satire of fury and grace, juxtaposing the background of drab walls and battered pillars. "What in Olympus are you doing to your brother?" she inquired harrowingly, and then rushed in to inspect Ginrius' state.

Zacleus, for all his big talk and brawns could only blush and scratch his head now. "We… erm… we were just playing some wrestling—he started it," he explained with a tense, unbecoming voice.

"Shame on you then!" retorted Minea, trading Aphrodite's grace for Artemis' ferocity. "Can't you find someone your own size? There's no shortage of our kind in the world, you know—better yet, why not find yourself a wanted monster? Earn your family a bounty for a change?"

Annoyed and out of excuses, Zacleus shot Ginrius a glare then skulked away, kicking down a wall section as he went.

Minea on the other hand continued to diagnose his patient. "We have to get these treated," she said, backsliding to her bedtime tone. "Let's go to my place."

Realizing that even trying to speak hurts, Ginrius nodded very carefully.

***

Despite being a demiG.o.ddess herself, Minea's place was a far cry from Olympus accommodation. It didn't have columns and sheets of gold, none of those ivory harps that played autonomously, not even one fancy divan with a standalone banquet. It was a commoner's quarter that had the requisite two rooms for her and her sickly mother, alongside everything else that served life's basic necessities.

Minea seated Ginrius by the dining area, served him a goblet of milk, some bread, and promised a quick return while she fetched medicine from the apothecary. When she walked back into the room moments later, she was cradling this small wicker basket that held a visible selection of herbal remedies.

She knelt down to inspect Ginrius' arms first, removing a pair of leather bands that got in the way of his swollen wrists. "You actually fought back," she told him as she probed the extent of the damage.

Ginrius cringed when she pinched the part, but it was more by surprise than actual pain. It did hurt, but somehow, the pressure of being this close to the girl took hormonal priority. "Tried to," he said, feeling his injuries twitch with every syllable, "Didn't pan out."

Minea smiled at him, and she could see how he burned bright red from the gesture—at least in the parts that remained unscathed (the rest glowed with an even darker shade, which scared her discreetly). "The good news is that there's nothing broken. Admirable considering how most of them end up losing a limb or two."

"Yeah, the man's a real charmer," Ginrius jested, which turned her smile to a full chortle. He was off to a good start, but then he had to screw it up by adding, "His father must be very proud."

At this, Minea's face lost color, feeling around as though she expected lightning to strike. Like everyone else, she was partial to mocking the king of the G.o.ds.

"I'm sorry," apologized Ginrius. He was about to leave when she tugged at his hand.

"You know you're always welcome here, right? Wounded or otherwise…"

While Ginrius grasped for the right words, a weak, broken voice called Minea's name from one of the rooms. It was so faint it could have been a specter, or the wind and its knack for misplaced intermissions. But he knew better. And even though he wanted nothing more than to stay by her side, he'd just be another patient to add to the already hectic ward. So he slipped his hand free and limped towards the door.

"Wait!" Minea ran to him. And as with all romantic clichés, she misjudged her speed and Ginrius turned too soon, landing them a compromising position by the wall. "You forgot this…" she said in a panicked tone, handing him a small jar of healing salve.

Ginrius received the item and Minea stepped back—with matching intensity. "Next time stay for dinner, alright?" She then led him out and slammed the door so hard, the entire house shook.

Our loverboy walked away with a contented look on his face, bruises and all.

***

Ginrius wasn't surprised to find Zacleus waiting for him. He paced restlessly about their front yard, kicking and punching anything that got in the way. Severe property damage: the top telltale sign that you're neighbors with a teenage demiG.o.d.

"What did she say? What did you do?!" His brother approached him with so much gusto, Ginrius had to s.h.i.+eld his face just in case.

"Why should I tell you?"

Zacleus raised his fist. "Tell me now or—"

"—or what?" cut Ginrius, grinning like a fox. "If you lay another hand on me, I might just stay at her place forever—get cared for and everything."

"Or I could just kill you here and now!"

"Haven't you been trying and failing all this time?"

That smiting hand of Zacleus was about to fly when an elderly man walked up to them. The boys broke apart in seeing their father and that pacifist smile of his. We ought to include luck in Ginrius' unbalanced skill tree.

"What are you boys doing? Come inside—I bought roast beef for dinner," the man said prior to entering the house.

"We're not done yet!" Zacleus warned Ginrius as they followed suit.

"Aren't we ever?"

"I swear, if you tell father…"

"Just go inside, Zacleus… I just want to rest…"

Inside, their father finally noticed Ginrius' condition. He had that same short-lived, disappointed expression, before unwrapping the supper he brought and placing it on the center of the table. He then proceeded to fetch goblets and dinnerware so they could have their meal.

Ginrius of course understood his father's position, though it didn't make it any less painful. He was the legitimate son; with her mother deceased, Zacleus didn't even have any more right to stay there than a stray cat. If anything, his presence was naught but a grim reminder of their family's darker history.
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But sadly, that's just how it is. Humans were powerless against G.o.ds, and by extension, their offspring. Most of the time, that glint of sadness in his father's eyes cut it, the only vindication left that he still cared. He also somehow translated it to the old man's faith in him, to his value as a man who could deal with his own problems. The setup worked for the last sixteen years of his life; another day shouldn't make that much of a difference.

For some reason, however, that night felt different. His father felt more detached to the situation and he felt more defeated than ever before. Ginrius felt sick of the notion that he almost gagged. Consolation came with the idea of fresh nighttime air, and dinner-to-go before the breathtaking sea. He stood up and suggested just that. "I was wondering if I could eat outside instead, father."

Thinking it was the least he could do, the father allowed it. So while Zacleus was occupied with his platter, Ginrius seized a portion of the roast, poured water into his flask, and stepped back out into the night.