And so the empty shell of his daughter stood before him, the look of utmost disappointment shone upon her face. His hand slid somberly off her gold plated shoulder, and his head bowed deeply in respect for his ignorant loss. His eyes tilted up in remorse, landing on an already aureate flower clenched tightly in the girl’s hand. As his final act and grace to her, he wedged the rose out of her palm, and trudged slowly back to his golden castle.

Servants looked upon him in both a tone of jealousy with true concern spread intermittently throughout the crowd. The rumors spread like a wildfire, and soon, everyone in the kingdom would know that the king had killed his daughter. Whether or not the malfeasance was intentional or inadvertent was irrelevant; it was simply up to townsfolk interpretation. No matter their thoughts on the incident, the whole town, kingdom, and even world went still if only for a moment. The ruler traveled and ventured, thinking it best to pay a visit to the god of wine, theater, and what he needed the most… ritual madness. He prayed to the deity for the key, for the cure to save his daughter, and the god had only one response.

“Wash thyself in the river Pactolus. You and whatever you bathe in the sacred waters shall be reversed of thine malicious touch.” Dionysus would not repeat himself, and the royal didn’t need him to, for he clung onto every word he said, and that served as his true hope. A fortnight took him right to the sands of the riverbed, and so he prayed a quick prayer, and stepped into the water. All seemed well, but when the hands by his sides felt the splash of the waters, he only stood in horror. For the “sacred” water with the magical powers he was promised was infecting itself in a golden plate, the color of which had grown from resplendent to dull in the eyes of the poor king.

By the moment he could wrap his mind around the events that be, the waterway had been changed into gold. A gift to the surrounding town of Sardis, but a curse to the man standing in the lake of his greed. The power hungry man simply bowed his head in disappointment, and made his way back to his castle of corroded metal. By the time he returned home, his mind had been made up. He sauntered through the ever ascending walls of his throne room, and climbed upon the seat of his power. Amongst no one but his own tormented thoughts and the soul of his daughter, long since passed. A finger pressed to the man’s temple, and the area began to grow gold. Amongst the faded metal that surrounded him, the statue of the king held itself to be aureate and resplendent; the finest yellow an eye could see. Soon his own power feasted on his flesh, until all that remained was the body of a man too consumed by his riches to accept the best form of wealth: love.

And all Dionysus could do was shake his head in disapproval.