A Swallow in the North (Greek Mythology) - Chapter 35

The age of the gods has fallen.

If one were to truly debate when the divine and mortal realms finally split, the academic world could argue for centuries without reaching a definitive conclusion. While the general consensus is that the gods departed during the First Industrial Revolution when rapid scientific progress replaced the need for miracles others believe those were merely lingering echoes. They argue that the true gods had vanished hundreds, if not thousands, of years prior.

In truth, the rise of humanity and the decline of the divine had shown clear signs long ago.

It began with that human who came from thousands of years in the future, who forged a legacy in Tauris, spoke her mind on the Areopagus, and stirred a storm upon Mount Olympus. Since then, the King of Gods, Zeus, had sensed a loss of control. He feared losing his authority; he feared the monsters in Tartarus would break free and tear him from his golden throne. For centuries, he remained silent, as if silence alone could preserve his reign as the third King of the Gods just a little longer.

But fate is not so easily dodged.

Zeus remembered the prophecy of Metis: “After the bright-eyed goddess, a son shall be born who will overthrow you.” He had swallowed Metis to prevent it, but he never realized that a prophecy is inevitable just as his father Cronus had stepped over the blood of Uranus to take the throne.

Many years later, as human footprints covered every mountain and river, the new things they created forced even the brilliant Athena to admit defeat. Apollo, the god of prophecy, read the future in the smoke of Delphi and saw that gods and men would eventually part ways. On that same day, Zeus realized with horror that his power had finally withered away.

At the moment of his fall, lightning flickered and thunder rolled across Olympus. Typhon, pinned beneath the volcano, sensed the release and struggled against his chains, triggering earthquakes that lasted decades and floods that nearly wiped-out humanity.

Centuries passed before a goddess awoke from the chaos of the East to mend the heavens and fill the seas, saving all living things from the upheaval caused by the shifting divine order. This event the “Cataclysm” established the eternal pattern of female dominance in the world.

When the Cataclysm ended, fewer than a thousand humans remained. Though their thoughts were precious and their spirits resilient, one fact remained: compared to the gods, humans were fragile. They didn’t even need a god’s malice to destroy them; a mere glance, a sigh, or a stray flash of light was enough to turn them to ash.

And as the humans died, the gods who relied on their faith would face their own end.

To avoid a mutual grave, the gods decided to withdraw from the mortal world. Mount Olympus ascended into the sky, hidden forever by the clouds. The gates of the Underworld were locked, and the King’s chariot no longer crossed the boundary. The waves of the seven seas concealed the palaces of the deep. The demigods who lived among men hid their identities, quietly maintaining a world that was slowly healing.

The link between God and man was severed. Only the growing power of human faith proved that the decision to withdraw had been correct.

But a new problem arose. The humans who survived the Cataclysm were few, and the gods they remembered were fewer still. Furthermore, they had lost much of their civilization. They relied on decaying paper and distorted legends to pass down the stories of the era when gods walked among men. Over time, countless gods and their stories vanished into the cracks of history.

Gods with their own domains held on a bit longer. Figures like Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite, or Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades, would be remembered for a millennium or more. But the minor spirits the Nymphs of the woods and the sprites of the sea faded as human footsteps retreated from the deep forests and the ocean floor. They chose a long sleep to resist the encroachment of human oblivion.

Yet, amidst this decline, the radiance of Artemis grew brighter than ever.

To humans, the change was invisible. They were entering the Second Industrial Revolution, and their focus on science meant the power of faith was thinning. But to the gods, Artemis’s light was like the sun compared to a firefly. Every god on Olympus noted that the light of the New Moon had surpassed the sun and the stars.

A thousand years after Olympus ascended, Metis the primordial goddess of wisdom finally emerged from Zeus’s form and issued a final prophecy:

“She shall rule through faith, justice and kingship, laying a foundation that shall endure forever!”

The power of an Elder Wisdom Goddess could not be ignored. Her words transformed into a thousand languages, appearing silently among the ruins of the mortal world. This was the final intersection of the divine and human realms.

The prophecy of the “New King” shook Olympus. Everyone guessed who it referred to, for the Fourth King was already apparent in the light Artemis radiated. The weakened Zeus finally surrendered, placing the golden crown of the King upon Artemis’s brow with his aged hands.

As the crown touched her hair, emerald palm leaves sprouted from it, winding around the gold. In an instant, the crown that had been stained by betrayal, blood, and conspiracy was cleansed. It took on a new form: Peace.

It was the most peaceful transfer of power in the history of the gods. The Huntress in her white robes finally sat upon the golden throne. Her father, mother, siblings, and enemies all knelt before her, chanting her name.

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After the Fourth King took her throne, there was little left to manage.

With the universal adoption of monogamy, the troublemaking Zeus fell into a deep sleep, and Hera, finally at peace, retired. The domains of Themis and Athena had been fully absorbed into human law, so they too faded into the background, visiting Artemis only occasionally to show they had not yet vanished.

Hestia took an interest in human inventions like gas stoves, but as humans advanced, the barrier between them and the gods weakened. Even a minor spirit could cause a catastrophe if they entered the human world now. Hestia and Aphrodite eventually made peace, spending their days reminiscing about the old times.

Apollo’s chariot sat idle; Ares’s armor gathered dust. Dionysus no longer needed to grant wine, for humans brewed their own. Cupid’s arrows were unnecessary, for humans chose their own fates and made their own vows.

Thus, the Fourth King, Artemis, found herself with only one task: to patrol Mount Olympus.

If a god fell into an eternal sleep, she recorded their name. If one slept so long they began to fade, she shared her power to wake them for a moment before letting them rest again. In the ancient days, this would have been a tedious chore; now, it was a way to pass the time.

Given her solitary nature, the work suited her perfectly. Day after day, year after year, she patrolled the silent mountain. In the quiet, hearing only her own footsteps, she would sometimes remember.

The images that came to her were not of grand banquets or rare tributes. They were simple, ordinary moments. In her eternal life, the few years she spent with the mortal occupied only a tiny corner of her memory like a mayfly compared to a sacred tree that lives for sixteen thousand years.

But once the tree has looked upon the mayfly, how can it forget that brief, brilliant spark?

Before I met you, my life was long, dry, and meaningless. I only truly began to live once I loved you.

Those were the best times in her memory when her Princess of Mycenae, the Protector of Tauris, took her rest in the temple. No matter what the world said, Artemis’s authority ensured her lover was never disturbed. She used to sit by the bed while the “Swallow of the North” slept, treasuring even a mumbled word of a dream.

Now, in her silent temple, Artemis listened again. But there were no whispers, no laughter—not even a sound from the mortal world. There was only the sighing wind, the shifting clouds, the falling dew, and the sound of running water.

Artemis donned her silver armor once more and picked up her bow.

My story ends here, she thought. Who would have guessed that the pinnacle of power would be so lonely?

Yet, as she looked back on the joy of those years, she felt as if she were drinking the finest nectar. She asked for nothing more.

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