Excerpt: Fall of the Ancients: The Greek Gods

The winds blew over the harsh, rugged landscape of the Greek peninsula, roaring over the plains and swirling between the rocky mountains. The northern wind was cold, harsh and unforgiving, freezing any who sought to defy its power, but the dark figure felt none of it. It stood alone on a tall mountaintop, bent and twisted, silent and unmoving. If any had seen it, unlikely as that was in these deep, dark, and deserted lands, they would have dismissed it as no more than a boulder, just one more stony outcropping to be hurried past. The figure did not move, did not talk, did not breathe, and yet it watched. It watched and waited, as it always did, its gaze upon the one mountain in view that was taller than his lofty perch. Mount Olympus.

It observed the gods on its summit, always waiting for them to falter, to show a sign of weakness, but for eons its search had been in vain. But the figure was nothing if not patient. It stood there, on occasion finding cause to set foot in the lower lands, trying to bring Zeus down from within his own people, but always failing. For time beyond measure it waited, always trying to bring the great Greek civilisation to its knees, never wavering in its constant attention. Neither the snow of winter nor the sun of summer could dislodge it from its mountain, not lightning nor wind nor earthquakes could force it to do anything beyond watch and wait.

The waxing moon set and the Helios’s fiery chariot started to rise, bathing the figure in its first rays of dawn, and yet not illuminating it any more than in the blackest of nights. Even the piercing gaze of the all seeing sun god could not discern the shape upon the mountain, his eyes passing over it without a pause. The day was identical to any other, marked only by the insignificant humans. The figure observed all the gods, constantly tracking their actions and movements. Zeus, king of the gods, was in his throne in the halls of Olympus, talking with his wife Hera and daughter Athena, god of wisdom. His brothers Poseidon and Hades were in their respective realms of water and death. Artemis was out hunting with her nymphs, with Demeter, goddess of fertility, nearby watching her sport. Her brother Apollo was out on the battlefield, one of his favoured towns being attacked by a horde of barbarians the by the god of war, Ares. Ares’ lover, Aphrodite, was with her husband Hephaestus, the crippled smith of the gods, certainly not by her consent. Hermes had managed to convince the gentle goddess Hestia into a game of chance, which he was actually losing, much to the amusement of Dionysus, god of wine. The figures gaze wandered past all of these mundane scenes, and alighted upon the half human half goat shape of Pan, the god of the fields.

It did not know why it was drawn to him, but it trusted its instincts. It followed the god through the grass of a hilly pasture, watching him closely. All day it watched Pan, waiting for something to happen. Finally, just as Helios began to retire, it happened. The figure watched carefully, committing every detail to its recall. After it had finished, the shape smiled slowly, for the first time in its long, long memory. Finally, it had something that it could use. It began to plot; all the pieces finally falling in to place.

Far below the jagged mountaintop, the great god Pan lay dead.