Laurel is a fantasy novel I have been writing for some time. Artemis brings justice to Zeus and Apollo. This is an excerpt taking place when the gods are younger, shortly before the idea of humans is conceived.

By the bubbling spring of the Ladon, Artemis found a litter of wild pups crawling over each other and nursing, and was overcome with admiration and envy. She ran to Athena’s hiding-place in Boeotia and seized her by the hand, flying them back to the spring.

The seven babies were still full of play, sniffing and jumping at each other. The mother watched half-lidded.

“See, these littles are full of untroubled love for each other. We gods have the best of all nature and arts, but none of us have that.”

Athena nodded and took it in. She’d see Zeus’s childhood in his brain. Her father was raised by a goat and nature spirits in a cave on Crete, in hiding from his own cannibalistic father. It wasn’t known if Zeus’s older brothers and sisters had anything like a childhood while they were in Cronus’s guts, for the six baby gods Cronus had eaten had no memories of it when they emerged. But when all were vomited out--Demeter, Hestia, Hera, Hades and Poseidon--they were already adults.

“Puppies have simple minds,” Athena said. “We do not.”

“Complicated minds need not prevent such bliss.”

“Yet usually do. But I see you are right, we great gods would have benefited from childhood.”

“Perhaps it’s not too late,” Artemis ventured. “There is no law against going back to this untroubled state.”

“We must not shirk the chóra we exist to cultivate. You to your forests, I to wise thought.”

“Surely the chórata can cultivate themselves, at least for a short time. And our relations to one another may be made more peaceful, in time providing a better cultivation.”

“Hmm.” Athena studied the puppies, no longer mindful of the conversation she was having with her sister. Yet she continued. “We uphold duties we took to serve Gaea. It would be dishonest to leave off without Gaea’s permission.”

“Perhaps father’s permission would do.”

“Hmm.”

Artemis grew quiet and petted the puppies. The mother stirred with aggression, but Artemis calmed and soothed her.

“These will be my friends, always,” Artemis whispered.

“Hmm.” Already looking for ways to sneak in a quick childhood. Now she’s resolved to continue for the rest of her life. Why should I try to take it away from her?

This was a subject of Athena’s study for two more years. Writing wouldn’t be invented until the following year, so she dictated her observations to Valis, her great snail. She’d given Valis a flawless memory, a slow and deliberate cogitation, and a desire to mock and question everything she said. Yet most of Athena’s interpretations of Artemis’s interaction with the pups was unassailable.

Athena posed as a nymph, Myrtle, one who was aloof and often left the coterie, supposedly to return to the beach. She was never found out by Artemis, who was wholly without suspicion. “Myrtle” disappeared at the end of Athena’s study. Years later Artemis would name a newborn nymph Myrtle after her elusive friend.

Through her deep contemplation, Athena could find nothing wrong with Artemis’s idealization of childhood.

“Idealizing anything is wrong,” Aphrodite replied.

“This is a source of great happiness for her, and no more distracting from her duty than any of our recreational pursuits. We take care of ourselves, she should be able to--”

“Has she transformed herself into a pup yet?”

“Never. She’s taken the shape of an adult bitch many times, but never reshaped her own mind during those times, and never fawned over the pups at that time.”

“She--” Aphrodite started.

“She has coined a new word for the sort of physical affection they show--cuddling.”

“That’s a stupid name,” Aphrodite said.

“I came to you to ask if this sort of love was within your chóra.”

“The love of a puppy for its litter is not godly, Athena.”

“I think you should reconsider.”

“Who are you to tell me about love, little owl? You’re not even a hatchling yourself, and I’d wager you never will be.”

“Better an egg than a clucking hen,” Athena said.

“I never thought I’d hear you say something as stupid as that, girl,” Aphrodite said.

“Just consider giving new gods what we could never have,” Athena said. “This could be part of your chóra if you love children.”

“That sort of softness may be fine for a dog, but it would erode arete from our pantheon from below if it took hold. Gods must grow to be firm.” Aphrodite returned to her lover of the moment, off in some lavender cloud over the horizon.

“If she’d ever been a child she would not see it that way,” Valis said.

“No shit,” Athena replied.

Athena did take the form of a girl of thirteen as a result of her study of pups, for she’d also studied other young animals. Their brains were pliable, resulting in rapid learning and flexible thinking, so she also changed her brain. She was careful to avoid associating much with her own litter, going weeks at a stretch without seeing Artemis and Apollo. They were not for her.

In flight, Athena toured the coast of the River Ocean, noting currents, bays, deep waters and shallows. Off the mouth of the Mediterranean she detected a great underwater mountain, a massif--a long, waving tumulus blanketed with sand and scum. One end was a bubbling vent of musty-smelling gases escaping from between the layers of Gaea’s interior darkness. In the days before the interior became populated, the space under the world was called Erebus, the darkness. It was the chóra of her uncle Hades, who, she speculated, liked her. Hades allowed her to explore the black Acheron Vault where he built his palace and raised his cattle. A short jot to the west was the abode of Tartarus, which she never visited. She supposed Tartarus was the source of the gases from the massif.

Artemis, not one to lose herself in loneliness, kindled a friendship with Persephone, her cousin and half-sister. Athena had found Persephone wholly too sweet and childlike, never mature enough in mind to become an Olympian. Clouds and meadows were the dance floor for Artemis and Persephone. The strange forests they created together were just a few inches beyond what Athena could have imagined possible. The plants behaved like animals, and vice versa, and the forests roamed over seas and islands like jolly rolling globes.

The next year, Athena, Artemis and Apollo joined the Olympian council as observers. Apollo had requested they be allowed to educate themselves before becoming members, as it was widely acknowledged that the three would one day have positions in the halls of Olympus. The twins were well liked among the older generation, but Athena was viewed with annoyance and suspicion. Zeus insisted she be allowed to join as an observer. Athena felt her time would be better spent preparing in her own ways, but chose to join to keep an eye on Apollo.

Ares and Hephaestus were already council members, as they were perceived to have reached full maturity.

“In other words,” Athena said, “They’re no longer capable of growing.”

“Why do you bother me so?” Aphrodite demanded. “Every time you get some notion about childhood you know I’ll disagree with, you come to me and proceed to prod me with it.”

“I thought you liked getting prodded.” Athena’s deadpan was flawless.

“One day you’ll mouth off to your daddy, and next thing you know you’ll be Typhon’s roommate.”

“Why wait for him? Go ahead and throw me to Tartarus yourself, if you think you can.”

“You think yourself my equal?” Aphrodite asked.

“No.”

“Because you declare wisdom your chóra no one else is wiser than you?”

“Other way round, lady.” Athena’s ichor surged now with the anticipation of battle. There would be a slap aimed at her face, she would catch it and throw the old whore into a column. From there, a scrap which would result in Aphrodite being put in her place, and Athena gaining sorely wanted battle experience.

But Aphrodite’s face cooled, rage dissolving. “You may have your precious opinions. Begone, child.”

Athena did not dash the column in half on her way out, or solidify air into boulder-sized chunks and punch them into pieces. Other Olympians would be watching. This was still probably a win, as the other Olympians would now think they’d seen a weakness in her, and have a sense of how to interact with her. Better that they think she has as terrible a temper as the rest of the high goddesses.

So arrogant, Aphrodite. Her revenge, she knew, might be a hundred years in the making. And then a justified retaliation against her would be so sweet.

Calm down, Owl, she thought to herself. The gods are dragging you down to their level. This is what they get busy with, their own drama.

Aphrodite was the oldest Olympian, springing to life before Cronus sired and ate any of his own offspring. But even Aphrodite had never had a childhood, emerging from the sea in the first and full blush of womanhood. Her first impulse was to outshine all creation thus far with her own beauty, and apparently that still motivated her. As far as Athena knew, Aphrodite had never taken the form of a child for even a single day. The love goddess’ curiosity was great, but had many limits.

Athena vaulted to her secret meadow in Boeotia and had herself a lie down. She laid aside her helmet and raised up a pillow of moss for her head. Looking past the blue at her own hidden star, she drank a bit of celestial charge. This, the unseeable globe of Grey Guard, she’d created as the focal point in a hidden sink for the fortío emanating from her chóra. The focusing act restored her even and neutral reason.

She had mounted Grey Guard on the second-most distant celestial sphere, a mere thousand miles from the black outer edge of the cosmos. Grey Guard was next to the brightest star of the fallen Pallas. Pallas was her friend and war-training partner in her first years of life, the first male god she associated with. As he was Titan it became her duty to oppose him in the Titanomachy, knock him to the ground with spear-holes in his back and gut, leaking his vital ichor. And as he suffered so, it was her own mercy to hurl him down to Tartarus to molder with the rest of his mighty generation. As he was honorable, it was her own justice to pay Pallas her respects daily, via his star. She doubted he had any connection to his star while he dwelled in Tartarus. Her tests had never indicated such.