(I have no business writing this. I have no business posting this. It's way too long, and I'm not sure it even fits the prompt that well. Gah. Here it is anyway.) ... There were a lot of reasons why they weren't there, and weren't missed, and weren't much thought of. They weren't warriors, had never been warriors, had never been strong enough to fight even in their prime. Had never had a great deal of *agency* even in their prime -- there was a reason they didn't show up so much in the myths.
If they'd faded less than some others it was partially because they hadn't had as far to go. Only partially, of course -- the other reason was that they could mostly still do what they'd always done, with slightly different window dressing. They were still useful, not necessary, but useful. (Among the metaphors suggested and rejected had been fertilizer -- "What, so we're cow manure?" -- artificial insemination -- "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that" -- chemical catalysts -- "*You* may spend too much time in science buildings, but that's meaningless to the rest of us" -- and Cupids -- "I'm *really* going to pretend I didn't hear that".) They were a lot better off than gods whose job had been, oh, to steer the sun. ("Funny that the adoption of the heliocentric model made Helios lose his job.")
Ultimately, though, they were very minor goddesses from a very has-been pantheon. Oh, some of their relatives might make a big thing out of being remembered, but the shift to not being taken seriously had started *early*, and the being remembered? Half of that came down to the present through *Roman fanfiction*. ...Some of which they'd been involved in creating. Thalia refused to apologize for the whole Ovid thing.
Between some resentment of still being active and Thalia's caginess about her degree of involvement (if any) in various recent works of fiction centered on Heracles-by-Roman-name, the last conversation which could have turned into an invitation ended in Calliope being called a flute girl. You could get away with that with some of them, but not Calliope. That put an end to *that*. Anyway, half of them were busy already.
It turned out to be lucky for them. Take an event involving the gods, which is major -- historical -- and common knowledge, or at least not secret, and you get Clio coming back to Parnassus in tears, because she knows. She just knows, just like Calliope knows this whole apocalypse thing through the humans involved and their epic lives. She knows.
In hindsight the flute girl argument was a bad way to part. Gods grow back, if the roots are still there ("I don't think you should be allowed to use metaphors anymore"), but their family... well. Some of them, maybe. In time. If there is time. ("Of course if you relax the 'family' definition to 'descended from Zeus', we're probably related to at least half the mortal population of Europe by this time.") They gather on the slopes of Olympus and lament as they did for Orpheus, because it is the thing that is done when kin die. Even when the kin that matter most are still with you.
They agree to try to stay -- keep -- under the radar ("Calliope, that does mean you should keep at least, oh, a mile distant when *stalking people*"), and that at the very end they'll all come back, be together, go out together, because they're sisters and it's always been that way.
And then Clio goes back to the humans she's helping in building a weird, super-durable, kind of abstract time capsule (to be found by the planet's next sapient species or by aliens, whichever), and Urania goes back to haunting the world's telescope laboratories (because Urania apparently cannot imagine the world ending without a big asteroid coming into it somewhere). Terpsichore and Euterpe go back to whatever their Secret Project is (and how secret can a song-and-dance number be, even if it is codenamed 'Zombie Jamboree'?). Calliope goes back to stalking epic people. And the rest of them go back to being at loose ends. Sure, they could do their usual thing, but it feels weird to ignore the apocalypse.
Tragicomedy
...
There were a lot of reasons why they weren't there, and weren't missed, and weren't much thought of. They weren't warriors, had never been warriors, had never been strong enough to fight even in their prime. Had never had a great deal of *agency* even in their prime -- there was a reason they didn't show up so much in the myths.
If they'd faded less than some others it was partially because they hadn't had as far to go. Only partially, of course -- the other reason was that they could mostly still do what they'd always done, with slightly different window dressing. They were still useful, not necessary, but useful. (Among the metaphors suggested and rejected had been fertilizer -- "What, so we're cow manure?" -- artificial insemination -- "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that" -- chemical catalysts -- "*You* may spend too much time in science buildings, but that's meaningless to the rest of us" -- and Cupids -- "I'm *really* going to pretend I didn't hear that".) They were a lot better off than gods whose job had been, oh, to steer the sun. ("Funny that the adoption of the heliocentric model made Helios lose his job.")
Ultimately, though, they were very minor goddesses from a very has-been pantheon. Oh, some of their relatives might make a big thing out of being remembered, but the shift to not being taken seriously had started *early*, and the being remembered? Half of that came down to the present through *Roman fanfiction*. ...Some of which they'd been involved in creating. Thalia refused to apologize for the whole Ovid thing.
Between some resentment of still being active and Thalia's caginess about her degree of involvement (if any) in various recent works of fiction centered on Heracles-by-Roman-name, the last conversation which could have turned into an invitation ended in Calliope being called a flute girl. You could get away with that with some of them, but not Calliope. That put an end to *that*. Anyway, half of them were busy already.
It turned out to be lucky for them. Take an event involving the gods, which is major -- historical -- and common knowledge, or at least not secret, and you get Clio coming back to Parnassus in tears, because she knows. She just knows, just like Calliope knows this whole apocalypse thing through the humans involved and their epic lives. She knows.
In hindsight the flute girl argument was a bad way to part. Gods grow back, if the roots are still there ("I don't think you should be allowed to use metaphors anymore"), but their family... well. Some of them, maybe. In time. If there is time. ("Of course if you relax the 'family' definition to 'descended from Zeus', we're probably related to at least half the mortal population of Europe by this time.") They gather on the slopes of Olympus and lament as they did for Orpheus, because it is the thing that is done when kin die. Even when the kin that matter most are still with you.
They agree to try to stay -- keep -- under the radar ("Calliope, that does mean you should keep at least, oh, a mile distant when *stalking people*"), and that at the very end they'll all come back, be together, go out together, because they're sisters and it's always been that way.
And then Clio goes back to the humans she's helping in building a weird, super-durable, kind of abstract time capsule (to be found by the planet's next sapient species or by aliens, whichever), and Urania goes back to haunting the world's telescope laboratories (because Urania apparently cannot imagine the world ending without a big asteroid coming into it somewhere). Terpsichore and Euterpe go back to whatever their Secret Project is (and how secret can a song-and-dance number be, even if it is codenamed 'Zombie Jamboree'?). Calliope goes back to stalking epic people. And the rest of them go back to being at loose ends. Sure, they could do their usual thing, but it feels weird to ignore the apocalypse.
Continued...