And worse still, he would have to tell them that after losing fire's protection, the filth lurking in the shadows would have the courage to come for them;
that the savage beasts would no longer fear them.
That some cruel monsters would even take them as food.
Not one of these words could he bring himself to say.
Yet they had to be said.
If humankind had to discover all these dreadful truths by themselves, groping through blood and death;
if, unprepared and in total panic, they had to face everything alone…
then the price in lives would be a hundred, a thousand times worse.
The pain of that cost was something he did not even dare imagine.
He had hoped humankind might suffer less from hunger.
Yet in the end, his "little cleverness" had brought them more hunger, more cold, and more deaths far more terrifying.
This was the price of deceit.
The shortcut path is always full of pits.
Tragically, the shortcut path is always crowded with "clever" people.
Those who fall in and cannot bear the pit will try to climb out by stepping on others.
Those just about to climb out will claw at those above them, desperate to get out first, even if it means dragging others back down.
Worse still, some who fall in cannot stand to see anyone else do well; even if they can never escape themselves, they will drag others down anyway.
And their most common tool is deceit.
Deceit is the starting point of all evil.
Just as Prometheus, with the same look of despair, stared at the equally despairing humans, about to be completely drowned by guilt and pain—
a voice, sounding playfully mocking yet weighted with great heaviness, came slowly from behind him.
"My foolish brother, look at the foolish thing you've done again."
"Why do I always feel that what you do out of 'cleverness' always leads to consequences greater, more terrible, and more tragic than anything I've ever done out of 'stupidity'?"
The voice belonged to the god of afterthought, "foolish" Epimetheus.
Nearly all the gods of Olympus had taken part in this great sacrificial ceremony.
But he had not.
And now, after all the gods had already returned to Olympus, he came here instead.
A beam of pure, flawless divine light descended from the heavens.
Epimetheus's figure slowly came down.
He floated freely in the air.
Hearing his words, Prometheus gave a bitter smile.
The god standing in the dust, filthy and earthbound, looked up at the spotless, hovering younger brother.
One on "heaven," one on "earth."
What a cruel contrast.
In a hoarse voice he answered, "Epimetheus, you're not wrong."
"Now it seems I am the most foolish of the gods. Congratulations—starting today, you are only the second-to-last in foolishness."
Epimetheus clicked his tongue. "That truly is something to celebrate."
"Not because I've become second-to-last, but because you, my 'foreseeing' brother, finally admit you are more foolish than I am."
"Though that has always been an indisputable fact. You've just never been willing to admit it."
Prometheus closed his eyes wearily and said no more.
Even those apparently light words had drained him completely.
Epimetheus also held his tongue.
He was genuinely afraid that if he said more, his foolish brother would be so ashamed he'd throw himself into Tartarus.
He turned and looked at the humans on the verge of breaking.
Every dirty face was full of confusion, horror, fear, and even that numbness that grows from despair.
Of course, in a few eyes there was still a faint… fragile hope.
And this tiny shred of hope returned only when they saw him.
Because he still looked like a "god."
Spotless, flawless, perfectly clean, his whole body shining with a soft divine light.
Most importantly, he floated in midair.
That formed the starkest, harshest contrast to Prometheus's wretched, earth-bound state.
Epimetheus flew a bit higher, so that every human present could see him clearly amid the ruin.
He sighed inwardly, then gently waved his hand.
Divine power brushed past like a mild breeze; the swirling dust settled; the fallen pillars slowly rose and stood; every crack and chip in temple and altar quietly mended.
The ravaged sacred ground was restored to its proper calm and cleanliness.
Then he exhaled lightly.
That breath became a gentle wind that stroked every mortal's face, bringing a precious comfort to minds nearly shattered and souls on the brink.
He called them back from the depths of confusion to a measure of clarity.
Then, in a voice solemn and majestic—completely at odds with his title of "fool"—he proclaimed:
"Mortals! The sacred covenant of gods and mortal beings has been established!"
"You are no longer simple, weak children who must be watched over every moment by the gods!"
"So the gods have taken back what never truly belonged to you!"
His voice rang like a bell in their hearts, yet without harshness.
"But do not fear! Do not panic! And do not be lost!"
"What you have lost now is only the gods' 'indulgence' of you!"
"That indulgence, though protective, was also a 'gentle cage'!"
"It bound your chance to grow on your own!"
"From this day on, you must honor the gods with faith, and serve them with obedience—but you must also make self-reliance your heart, and unceasing striving your path!"
"Believe in yourselves! Under the gods' shelter and care, under their teaching and blessing, you will gain more!"
"What you will gain are things that truly belong to 'humans'—things humanity creates with its own hands and its own wisdom, that are truly your own!"
"For the gods have already given you what is most precious: the wisdom that can grow freely; the healthiest road of growth; and the most just sacred covenant!"
"It is time you grew! Time you came of age! A better, brighter, more splendid future is waiting for you!"
"Honor will belong to you who are independent and strong!"
"Go, children! Tell all this to your people!"
"You are not only the gods' children! You can grow into the gods' believers! You can become the gods' helpers, the gods' arms!"
"Though this will require double the effort, the gods have granted you a vastly broader future because of it!"
"Do not forget your teacher's lessons! Do not forget His Majesty the God-King's heart for the world! Do not forget His sacred Just Order!"
"Trust His Majesty the God-King forever—the eternal, supreme Lord, the most loving and magnanimous Father! He always loves you, and all mortals who follow His Sacred Just Order!"
"Your kin, your children, know none of this yet. Go! Bring them this new 'hope!'"
"There is no need for panic, for sorrow, or for confusion! For from this day, many more gods will watch you from the heavens!"
"Your deeds, your striving, your devotion—all will together decide how many gods will come to love you more deeply!"
"Go! Go! Strive for yourselves! Work hard for yourselves! In the end, you will gain more!"
Epimetheus, the god of "afterthought," when all others had fallen into despair, once more gifted humankind a sliver of new dawn—this new hope of "self-strength and self-reliance."
His words were like a small lamp, faint but enough to guide a path in the dark.
However each human felt inside, in the end they chose to trust.
Because they truly had no other choice.
They did not know what had happened in the heavens.
But at least they knew the gods had not wholly abandoned them; the gods had not come to wipe them out.
As long as they still lived, there was a future.
The toughness of life, the resilience of civilization—they already possessed them.
Among the crowd, some sobbed quietly, some whispered in despair, but all slowly struggled up to their feet.
Epimetheus might be their fragile hope—but they themselves were the hope of all human tribes.
They had no right to despair.
Because behind them were many more who needed their leadership and protection.
The burden upon their shoulders was too heavy.
They began to help one another up, to straighten their filthy faces, to gather scattered tools in silence, to reverently put temple and altar in order.
Even the faintest hope was reason enough to continue living.
As humans busied themselves and murmured prayers, Epimetheus drew the shattered Prometheus away.
They walked slowly, alone, to a quiet place, on the earth that bears all things.
The earth is broad and forgiving; it holds all things, whether guilt or repentance, pain or hope buried in its soil.
Prometheus's divine body still bore the aftershock of the God-King's blow.
The splintered edges of his divinity stabbed at his every thought like icy awls.
On the face that had once shone with divine light, one could now clearly see the exhaustion and hurt he could not conceal.
Epimetheus's speech had been comfort, and hope; it brought Prometheus a touch of rare warmth.
But that warmth was little more than a spark in an eternal winter night, a tiny ember quickly smothered by endless cold.
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