The atmosphere had settled into a solemn, philosophical silence.
An incredibly dazzling figure, hurtling with the fury of someone seeking an accounting, crashed down onto the edge of the river valley like a humanoid meteor.
It was Hermes.
His entire body was wreathed in a pure, brilliant light that made it impossible to look directly at him. He was like a walking lighthouse, and even the surrounding landscape seemed to lose its original colour beneath his radiance. His emerald-green eyes blazed with anger as he glared venomously at Hecate, his target clear – he had obviously deduced the source of his 'dazzling attire' and had come to settle the score.
"Hecate! You..." His angry accusation barely escaped his lips before he keenly registered the unusual atmosphere of the scene.
He saw the rare look of bewilderment on Hecate's face. He saw Thalia, head bowed, her entire being steeped in confusion and despair, a state diametrically opposed to her essence of 'joy'.
Hermes's quick mind immediately began to race.
Something was wrong with Thalia, very wrong. Her expression was as if she had glimpsed the inherent emptiness of the world, and the very meaning of her own existence had begun to waver. This state was extremely dangerous for a god whose essence was founded on 'laughter' and 'creating joy'; it could even lead to the collapse of their divinity.
In an instant, his anger over the irritating light he was emitting was suppressed. Settling scores with Hecate could wait; the priority now was to pull this sister back from the cliff-edge of an existential crisis.
Thalia's question was, at its core, a philosophical inquiry with no standard answer. Trying to convince her with logic and words would only sink her deeper into the quagmire of speculation. The main priority wasn't to give her an answer, but to distract her attention, using vivid, lived experience to wash away the abstract feeling of nothingness.
"Hey! My dear sisters, why the long faces?" Hermes forced his trademark, slightly roguish smile, though it looked somewhat comical in the bright light. His voice also took on a cheerful lilt, a stark contrast to the god who had just stormed in demanding satisfaction.
He stepped forward, ignoring Hecate's warning glare, and threw an arm around Thalia's shoulder.
"What's the point of moping in this dreary river valley? Look, your brother has found all sorts of interesting things! Come with me, I promise to open your eyes!"
Without waiting for a response, he whisked Thalia away from the river.
Hecate watched their retreating backs, feeling both relieved and somewhat perplexed. She had to admit, Hermes was indeed better equipped to handle this kind of emotional issue than she was.
Hermes took Thalia and began to roam the world without a fixed destination. Utilising his speed, he whisked her through city-states and countryside. He showed her the hawking cries of merchants in the marketplace, craftsmen focused on forging utensils, lovers exchanging vows under the moonlight, soldiers training for honour, and poets reciting heroic epics in the public squares...
He tried to use this world, with its vibrant, lively essence, to reawaken Thalia's perception of 'life'.
But it backfired.
Thalia's gaze glided over these scenes. Her divine nature allowed her to clearly perceive the fleeting joys within them – the joy of a successful transaction, the satisfaction of a completed task, the sweetness of love, the motivation of honour, the resonance of art... But these sparks of light, in her current state shrouded in emptiness, only cast a deeper darkness.
Behind the vendors' smiles lurked anxiety over profit and loss. The craftsman's satisfaction was accompanied by the weariness of repetitive toil. The lovers' tenderness could turn to enmity in an instant. The soldier's glory was built on blood and death. The poet's epic sang of tragedies long since passed into dust.
"Look, Hermes," her voice was hollow.
"What does the embodiment of laughter mean in this hopeless world? Power can easily steal a river god's daughter, and fate can toy with the lives of mortals as it pleases. How fragile and self-deceiving are these small pleasures we see, when faced with such great injustice and oppression?"
Hermes keenly sensed the gravity of the trouble. Thalia's state wasn't merely sadness; it was a deeper existential dread. As the goddess of joy, the very foundation of her divine identity was shaking – if joy itself was meaningless in the face of great suffering and nothingness, then what was the value of her existence?
This awakening of the mind was like a sharp blade, slicing through the warm veil over reality to reveal a meaningless bedrock beneath. It wasn't negativity, but a truth to be faced: the world itself might possess no predetermined 'meaning'.
Simple travel and observation were no longer effective.
Hermes made a quick decision. Taking Thalia's hand, he shrouded them both in a veil of divine light, transforming them into ordinary mortals. All divine radiance faded. He wanted to introduce her to a 'being' who might offer a different perspective.
They quietly arrived at the foot of the crags of the Caucasus Mountains.
There, the ancient Titan Prometheus was chained to the rock face with unbreakable fetters, and the eagle came daily to peck at his liver. Yet in the eyes of this sufferer, there was not only pain but also a restrained wisdom and an almost compassionate serenity.
Seeing the two visitors disguised as mortals, Prometheus did not expose them, but greeted them like a kindly elder welcoming lost travellers.
"Strangers from afar, why do you frown so deeply?" His voice was like a mountain breeze, weathered by ages yet full of strength.
Thalia looked up at the suffering prophet and poured out the confusion in her heart, along with her central question:
"Wise one, why does life laugh? If fate is already predetermined, and suffering is our constant companion, what can our laughter be but meaningless noise?"
Prometheus listened quietly. A clear smile appeared on his weathered face.
Instead of answering directly, he told a story – a story about choice and meaning:
"Have you ever heard of Sisyphus? A mortal punished by the gods to endlessly push a boulder up a mountain, only to watch it roll back down and begin again."
"To many, the fate of Sisyphus is the ultimate symbol of absurdity and futility. It is like the inherent dilemma of life – repetitive, seemingly hopeless, all efforts ultimately returning to dust." Prometheus spoke slowly, his eyes seeming to pierce through the stone wall, glimpsing the figure locked in that eternal cycle.
"But," he said, his voice gaining a firm strength, "Sisyphus still has one final choice, a choice that not even the gods can take from him."
"He can choose to be disheartened, despairing, and curse his fate throughout the ordeal, letting the pushing of the stone become the most painful torture in the universe, allowing his life to be completely consumed by nothingness."
"Or," his voice lifted, "He can push that boulder with courage, even with a lightness of spirit! He can focus on the strain of his muscles, feel the sweat and the mountain breeze, and enjoy the scenery along the way each time he climbs the slope, even if it is brief. He can defy the gods' punishment and find his own rhythm and dignity within that doomed task!"
"And so," his voice rang out like a proclamation of truth, "that task is no longer just meaningless toil imposed by the gods! Sisyphus, through his choice and his spirit of defiance, creates his own meaning! He uses his actions to fight against nothingness itself!"
He looked at Thalia with his deep, knowing eyes. "Meaning is not a predetermined gift from the world. It requires a living being to bestow it, to create it through their own will, their choices, and their actions. Even in the most seemingly futile of situations."
He paused, then offered a more concrete suggestion:
"If you are truly troubled by the question of meaning, go to the city-states. Observe closely. See life's most primitive beginnings and its most inevitable end. Perhaps there you will find the answers you seek."
Prometheus smiled, watching the two 'mortals' bow and take their leave. Before they departed, Hermes also took a friendly shot at the eagle with his sling. As for their true identities, they all knew well enough that it didn't need stating. The exchange of wisdom sometimes resides in just such silent understanding.