It had worked. Months of trying. They had tried everything possible. Anything written about had been tried. Fasting. Fig and laurel baths. Alcohol. Dozens of different drugs. Orgies. Combinations of everything. And what had made it work? Bunny had been left behind after Charles had caught him eating during the fast. And it had worked.

It felt impossible to describe. Euphoric, orgasmic, otherworldly. One second they were all on the lawn of Francis's country house, the next they were running, floating, laughing and melting through the woods, quite literally beyond their minds. They had felt Dionysus. Felt God, in a way that was only possible to be felt, not described. They chased a deer, maybe something else as well, maybe a hare or fawn. Maybe nothing at all.

And just as quickly and miraculously as it started, it ended. Henry came back to himself standing in the woods, Charles and Francis there, both bloodied and dazed, Charles with a bite that was far from human on his arm, but alive. And before them was the corpse of a man. A farmer, if his clothes were any indication. His face was bashed in, his chest ripped up and open, blood everywhere. It had been sobering. Henry knew they needed to go, needed to clean and fix this, even if he didn't have a plan for the first time in his life.

They found Camilla at the edge of a small embankment leading down to a stream, alive, mostly unscathed, tongue-tied and unable to speak. But their fifth member was missing. It was Camilla who guided them to him. He was sitting downstream, just in the water. So calm, so peaceful, soaking his feet in the frozen water, the soles torn and bloodied to bits.

Francis helped him to the car, who complied without protest. The drive to Henry's apartment was a daze, what one would expect from a car full of five bloodied, drunk, drugged, chiton-wearing people fresh out of an ancient ritual. It was nearly morning when they arrived. Rushing into the house as quickly as possible, only to awake Bunny, who had been lying in wait, sleeping after spilling a quart of ice cream over Henry's pretty oriental rug. Henry acted quickly, sending the others to clean up while he sent Bunny away. The twins and Francis cleaned themselves as quickly as possible, bandaging wounds and changing into fresh clothes. Camilla ran a bath and put him in it before leaving for home, leaving just Henry and him.

Henry came back to himself almost fully, bone tired and drained, but present. He was a different story. He hadn't said a word since it ended, didn't move without guidance, just sat in the pink-stained water as it cooled, the chiton giving way and falling off. When Henry saw this, he at least tried. He spoke to him, first in English, then Greek, then nursery French. It came to no avail, so Henry did what he could. He drained the water when the other boy started to shiver, lifted his bare form out of the tub, dried him, swaddled him in a comforter and took him to the living room, sitting him on the couch. Henry began to wrap the cuts and tears on the soles of his feet, mumbling stories in Greek in hopes of getting a response. The glazed look in his eyes scared Henry, the same look the poor boy got when Bunny was too cruel. It frightened Henry more than the corpse in the woods.