Old man on the Mountain

An ancient being gets his 100,000 steps in for the day. And complains about every one of them.

His legs burned as he climbed the never ending mountain. He felt like he was pushing a boulder up a hill - like that guy, Sisyphus? He wondered how old Sisyphus was doing. Probably still trapped in the Underworld, doing his best impersonation of a pointless perpetual motion machine. He knew Hades wasn’t forgiving when exacting divine justice.

As it should be. Mortals cheating death disrupted the natural order.

Cheating death was more of a ‘god thing.’ Mortals… oh no. That would not do. Their minds weren’t equipped to handle eternity.

But cheating old age was something no god nor mortal could do. 

It was possible for a god to keep their body eternally young… but grief has a way of accumulating over the eons. Time, in its own way, comes for everyone.

Though he wasn’t pushing a boulder up a hill, he was hiking up a very steep trail. And he was, admittedly, rather old for this level of exertion. Very… very… old. He remembered when the Big Bang was still in the design phase at a cosmic cocktail party.

He’d been to several Big Bangs, both metaphorical and literal. 

But—he couldn’t remember how old he was! Age only matters when you spend a lot of time around people who remember what their age is. But when you disconnect from that whole… time… thing, your age becomes an unquantifiable measure that loses its pizzazz.

He doubted many of his peers remembered exactly how old they were. 

Particularly given how wobbly inter-realm time streams were.

Well except for Chronos. He surely knew exactly how old he was, down to a precise measure. Not that he’d be able to communicate it. Being the God of Time is like being the accountant at a never-ending staff Christmas party; you're always aware that the fun has to end, but you're too busy balancing celestial books to enjoy it. No one understands the numbers - they’re just glad that the business can still afford liquor.

Being the God of Time was no way to live.

Could be worse though, he could be the God of Depression and Anxiety.

The old god paused on the trail gazing into the star lit horizon, wondering what it would have been like if he’d taken up the mantle of Petty Disputes. Just inconsequential bickering and debate all day long. No major consequences, just… bickering for its own sake. No pressure. 

He wouldn’t be hiking up this mountain, that’s for certain. He'd be too busy arguing over whether the mountain was, in fact, a large hill or perhaps a petite alp. Or in some tavern or marketplace, arguing about something inconsequential, like who is picking up the tab or what's the fair price of a used sandal. Maybe he’d be an academic. 

He’d enjoy that for a millennia or two. Sounds like a vacation compared to his current job.

Looking down, he saw the mountain path go down and down and down, then disappear into the cloud-line below. Sighing, he looked back up the mountain. It continued up… and up… and up… like an endless Terms and Conditions page, but with rocks.

He groaned and got back to hiking. He missed being able to fly up to the top of the mountain. It had been nearly two thousand years since he’d had enough power to be able to manage that flight. Now he had to walk the distance to Olympus on foot, and by Zeus, was that exhausting. Not that he missed the responsibility that came with being the God of the Sun. 

Not just a God, but a Titan! Now demoted to the role of an immortal antique. Less 'divine overseer,' more 'celestial paperweight.' And still feeling every eon in his bones.

Ever since his boy died… it just wasn’t the same. He couldn’t continue in the job - better to let the new guy do it.

He snorted at the thought of Apollo being “the new guy.” Apollo, the divine intern turned department head in less time than it takes mortals to figure out how to turn lead into gold. He was nearly as spoiled as Baldur. And lately, Apollo had been raving about the end of time. That’s what you get for giving a softie like him the mantle of Prophecy. Lunacy. Being the God of Prophecy was as bad as being the God of Time. 

Too many mantles were bad for the mind, even for gods. 

He took a moment to stare at the Sun blazing down at him. That used to be his Sun. 

The Sun that took his son. 

Helios sighed, taking a moment longer to miss the old days when he could've simply rode the solar chariot to the top - then continued his laborious ascent to the Olympus Heights Gated Community. Where the aqueducts are filled with ambrosia, the streets are paved with gold, and the security guards ask for your divine lineage before letting you in. 

He’d rather not be in this entitled place of unpleasant memories, but he had a message to deliver.

Editorial Notes;

This is the first short story that I’ve published from the perspective of the Gods of Olympus, but their story intersects with the events of the world of Rundell and Tir Ardúan Pinéthra in a huge way. One of the major themes of the book Im writing, “When Gods Dream,” is - what if ALL the gods are real? What chaos that would imply. How would they co-exist? And what does that mean for us.

It also means, uncomfortably, that I’ve committed myself to becoming a scholar of ancient and current religions by accident. I didn’t mean to do it, but I’ve gone this far so… “Yolo.”

In other exciting news, I got my first ‘pledge’ of financial support through this substack two days ago.

My life has had some… ‘chaos’ in it of the wildly uncomfortable style in recent weeks, and somehow that was the thing I really needed to see that I didn’t know I really needed to see.

It reminded me about things like “Mission” and “Why” we do the things we do matter more than people’s opinions of us. And that even when life feels like it’s shitting on and all around you like a flock of incontinent pigeons, it’s important to remind yourself what your goals are, pick yourself up, and get back to work.

So to my friend Chris B - love ya buddy.
Your timing could not have been more fantastic.

-Robin George