Record of Ragnar?k Redirected

Why did the Gods create Humanity?

An easy question was asked, but a difficult one to answer definitively. Even amongst the Gods themselves, there is no hard and fast answer. Some believe they created Humanity to act as a servant race, others simply on a whim because they could. Few ever considered, nay, humored, the possibility that Humanity was created as a successor race to the Gods. They were weaker, smaller, lived shorter lives, and lacked the supernatural abilities of their creators, among a myriad of other shortcomings. Before the Gods were the Primordial Gods, ancient, powerful beings whose bodies became the foundation of the cosmos when their great power overwhelmed them. Following their destruction, the Gods, the Titans, Demons, and many other races were born from the Ether and established Valhalla, Midgard, and Helheim. While weaker than their predecessors, these races proved capable of honing and controlling their power, making them in some ways superior. If that's the case, then could not the same be said of Humanity? Weaker than before, but also stronger than before. Why did the Primordial Gods have such power only to die under its weight? Why did their power give birth to the other races? Were the Gods suffering from a built-in compulsion to continue the cycle of succession? Did they subconsciously know Humanity would one day surpass them?

These questions sat within the mind of a single, lone Titan living out his days chained to a rock. The sun loomed overhead with only a few clouds in the blue sky. He would always hope that the clouds would block the sun, but more often than not, his hopes were dashed. The bright sun was the only thing that could break his train of thought and pull him back into the dreary reality of his situation. In some ways, he preferred it to death; in others, the monotony made death seem like a relief. However, once he reclaimed his internal questions, he would dive back into them, tuning out the world. There were times he was so focused on his intellectual pursuits, he could ignore the eagle as it flew overhead. It descended, hungry for its daily feast. It landed next to him, eyeing his stomach, then tried to meet Prometheus' spaced-out gaze. Knowing it had no threat to its next meal, it stared straight down and dug its beak into the imprisoned Titan's torso. The act was still painful, but Prometheus soldiered on, refusing to let his thoughts stray towards the pain. He could feel the eagle's violent tug, the tearing of flesh and muscle, the beak clipping away at the liver's connective tissue to the rest of his body. Soon, it would stop, and he was once more deprived of his liver. The eagle swallowed it whole, its eyes widening as it choked down the fatty piece of godly flesh. It screeched, then flew off. Blood poured from the open wound, but Prometheus knew the wound was already starting to heal. By nightfall, he would be whole once more.

These questions inspired his desire to see what Humanity could do. It was these questions that convinced him they needed a chance to assert their position as a valid existence. These questions compelled him to give them fire and knowledge. However, they still needed a guide. His efforts were cut short, and he was unable to save them from themselves. Poor Adam and Eve...had he known of their plight, he could have saved them and prevented the loss of such raw potential to the wilderness of Midgard. Their descendants fared no better. They took his gifts and squandered them, but he knew they could be saved. He could save them, and through him they would find salvation. He could lead them, and together they could rise to the top of the Heavens. Humanity would thrive, with Prometheus to guide them as their ruler...at least until the next successor would come. Then Prometheus would do the same again. First the Titans, then the Gods, and someday Humanity. After all, it does not matter where it comes from or what it's made of, deadwood is deadwood. It must be burnt up or else the ensuing wildfire will consume all, and only Prometheus knew where and when to burn it.

The air continued to cool within the arena. The air surfacing Prometheus' body rippled ever so slightly amongst the dreary cold. The furthest torches from him extinguished, and the room went dark. The only source of light was Prometheus' glowing hair and eyes, the shapes contorting as an unseen, massive, near-psychotic look of pure mania grew on his face.