In each tribe there was not only one leader. According to the division of survival tasks, each realm had one or several, generally those whom all jointly acknowledged and put forward.
Yet they were only responsible for teaching and taking the lead in their own part. Tribe affairs were still discussed together by all the clansfolk.
In this age, being a leader was truly a bitter job.
They ate the same amount as everyone else, enjoyed no special treatment at all, yet did the most, worried the most, spent the most strength, and worked the most.
At this stage, "leader" meant "one who takes the lead to work alongside everyone"…
Demeter gazed at the busiest figure in the fire-mirror.
He was a strong man. He gave the best roast meat to the tribe's children and took only the worst piece for himself.
He ate the quickest too, for after he finished, he still had to inspect the campfires, prepare the tools needed the next day, and teach the children and clansfolk the skills of the hunt.
The notion of "unfair" appeared for the first time.
Only, this first "unfairness" fell upon these selfless leaders.
It must be said, the origin of many things may be utterly different from their future.
As for those who were not leaders, their lives were in fact simpler and more comfortable. They only needed to do what was theirs to do.
Those who could hunt chased wind and beast; those who could weave nets watched water and listened to the tide; those who could gather spoke with the forest.
All did what they could according to their ability. As for children, all raised them together.
Of course—
Because the concepts of "marriage" and "family" had not yet been born, even the gods who taught them were all single.
For now, each tribe—or rather all humanity's continuation—stood in a relatively free and unrestrained primitive state…
Children knew only their mothers, and did not know who their fathers were—
But this was not important, not much of a problem.
At least, not important before the second generation of humans grew up…
On the whole, humanity, still living in "swaddling," under the careful care of the gods, led a plain and simple life.
Aside from those leaders who needed to bear more responsibility, ordinary people did not have many daily troubles.
Beyond the troubles of survival itself, the rest had not yet been born.
And the most troubled were those who always liked to tilt their heads and look up at the sky.
Beyond survival's troubles, their little heads—just beginning to turn—were full of too many questions they could not answer.
Why does night fall? Why do stars glitter? Whence comes the wind? For whom does the rain fall?
And what, after all, are gods?
When they looked up at the sky, the boundless, deep star-sea always filled them with curiosity and fear at once.
The starry ocean, limitless, intoxicated and made the heart tremble.
The radiance of sun and moon poured upon the earth generously and with love, filling their hearts with the most primitive reverence.
Yet they were also like two alternating, sleepless eyes, watching all things and naturally birthing awe.
Not to mention that "thunder" and "fire" engraved in the deepest place of the soul.
Each time wind and rain rose, each flash and peal—work in the tribes would halt at once.
Thunder seemed a proclamation; people gathered their kin in alarm, stopped all activity, ran together back to the caves, and prostrated within.
With trembling, halting voices, in utmost devotion, they offered prayer to the supreme Lord of Thunder named by the gods, the King of All Gods, the Lord of All—Zeus—pleading that He still that "anger" that could rend the firmament.
Thunder was the "Heavenly Father's wrath" hanging overhead, unfathomable—
An absolute majesty mortals could never understand, only revere!
At such times, only the warm flame within the cave, burning from ash branches, eternal and unquenchable, could bring them a little comfort.
Fire was the "warm mother-love," within reach and unchanging; a gentle source mortals could forever rely upon and draw strength from.
Thus, without any teaching, without any formal rites, in the most ignorant state, relying only on the simplest divine name heard from the gods, and on instinct, they softly called the name of the mistress of that warm fire.
Their speech was still unclear, but their devotion utmost: Hestia.
They begged that warmest fire to carry the violent thunder from their horizon.
A divine name must not be invoked lightly; wherever it is held in mind, there must be an echo.
Zeus did not fail to hear.
Yet His Majesty the supreme God-King had long since set for Himself "whitelists" and "event triggers and sensitive words" for receiving petitions.
Other than that, such simple mutterings that "刷祂名字"—repeatedly spoke His name—He would not hear.
For they were far too many. If He listened to all, He would be annoyed to death on the spot.
For the development and perfection of the laws of the whole universe, He was already busier than busy~
Where would He find the time to listen to these ceaseless entreaties?
Besides, He did not wish to interfere too much in humanity's independent development.
So long as they were not facing destruction, what humanity met upon its own road should be explored and solved by humanity itself.
But that warmest holy fire never set a screen.
Facing the universe's first, mere millions of humans, she—most warm and loving—never blocked even the faintest petition from the mortal world.
When humans, startled and fearful, recited her name, she would let the cave's flame burn hotter and warmer.
She made the fire leap higher and hotter, to drive out damp and cold, dry clothes and tear-tracks, light the cave and the heart, purify danger and dread, and bring them light and calm.
With warmth and brightness, she gently soothed those poor, tiny little children.
Of course, what humans got from thunder-rain was not only fear.
They had also met another kind of "change of heaven"—golden clouds overhead, flowing rosy light, and thereafter a fine, gentle "golden rain" that nourished all things.
Bathed in this holy golden rain, every weariness would be borne away, every wound would vanish without a trace, stubborn sickness would be driven off at once, and even unknown mutations would be guided into wholesome development.
Their bodies would grow stronger, their spirits more full.
Each time, all humans would heap up the greatest ash-wood bonfire and sing and dance unrestrained in the golden rain.
With their still-muddled yet ardent speech, they devoutly praised the supreme grace of Heaven.
Curiously, the golden rain would not quench that holy fire; it would instead make the flames rise higher. Tongues of fire grew against the falling rain, like a blossom braced open by golden light.
At such times, amid the joyous throng, there were always some who stole glances at the sky; in their eyes shone deeper curiosity and puzzlement.
As how, if both were flames kindled by thunderbolt, those first thousand seeds of flame granted by the gods would never go out for any reason—
But fire from other trees, lit by lightning, would be put out by water, by wind, by rain, even by lack of fuel.
And why would that holy flame burn eternally only upon ash branches?
Whereas other woods, once consumed, saw the fire go out all the same?
Thus, in endless curiosity, humanity stumbled forward and grew.
This was what Hestia had long watched in silence.
The warm Sovereign of Fire—though she had a side that could explode and burn all things—was, in her essence, eternal warmth and light.
She loved Zeus, and she loved all living beings who yearned for warmth and light.
Humans—this newborn race—were small in stature and short of life, yet they had bodies like the gods and, most importantly, wisdom that could grow without cease,
and emotions rich beyond measure that came from the gods.
The divine realm was ever so calm and uneventful.
Even a little quarrel was no great matter to undying gods.
The universe's rules changed greatly—one might say with every passing day.
But all of it was under her beloved Zeus's hand and destined to move toward the brightest and greatest future.
Gods are deathless, their might without limit.
Whatever they did, there was no need to hurry; it was enough to do things slowly and enjoy this infinitely beautiful universe at ease.
But these newborn humans were utterly different.
Their lifespans and strength, compared to gods, were so slight as to be hardly worth mention.
Time is only a friend to gods.
But it is the most fearsome, most merciless enemy running after mortal beings.
So humans were always in haste, easily anxious, always wishing to do more, to do what mattered more, within their limited lives.
They would actively seek the meaning of their lives and weave their brief time into a lively, flavorful everyday.
That time of theirs—brief, yet ever so busy—was precisely what Hestia found most enchanting.
The simplest feelings and laughter between humans, the closeness of speaking eye to eye by the bonfire, and that brand-new little life's first loud cry—all set her heart aglow.
She knew Zeus had the longest plan for humankind.
So before Zeus spoke, she did not go directly to contact humans.
But she had always been the god who paid humankind the most heed.
Every light of fire in the mortal world was her gentle eye turned toward the dust,
and the great symbol of her silent protection over humankind.
Yes, yes—Olympus was of course fairer.
It was the supreme center of the entire universe; the home of many great deities; the place that symbolized the greatest God-King Zeus—her most beloved god.
Here lay her honor, her revered Mother Goddess, her beloved sisters, her dear friends, and her most beloved—God-King Zeus.
It also held the fairest sights, infinite wonders and splendors, endless delicacies and wines. Even the aether that flowed in the air was utterly different from the mortal world.
Yet here was too sacred and pure, too lofty and aloof.
And the gods were too independent and self-contained; most were proud and solitary.
Gods were like brilliant stars, each shining, seldom crossing paths.
Olympus was like a flawless divine crystal—holy, grand, dazzling, eternal, pure—yet also cold, hard, and changeless for ages on end.
The mortal world, however, was like a warm pottery vessel, fashioned by the simplest craftsman's hands with love and hope—awkward and rough, yet ever being formed.
It was imperfect, yet full of endless possibility.
In the gatherings of humankind, there was something utterly different from the realm of gods.
Something that drew her still more, an atmosphere that made her long to go to the mortal world and feel it in person.
That thing, that feeling, was one she could long find no fitting word to name.
Until, later, in a mortal tribe, she heard a mother, with halting, still simple speech, teaching her child:
"My child, remember this warm feeling, remember the fragrance of cooked food. We must thank the great goddess of Fire—thank Her—for granting us 'hearthfire.' So we can enjoy this warmth and this savor."
This was not flowery, nor complex, yet was one of the clearest sentences in human speech of the moment.
Humans had not forgotten that warm fire.
It was the most important treasure of their lives and most worthy of thanks.
From that moment Hestia knew at last what she had always loved and longed for.
"Hearthfire."
It was the "flavor of hearth and home," rich with the breath of life, when kin, family, and friends could be together and share that peace and warmth.
It was the children's laughter, the fragrance of food, the clan's idle talk, the bonfire's crackle—all woven into a symphony named "home."
The meaning of fire did not lie in how holy flame itself was, but in its power to bring warmth to the family.
A fire without "home" was only a heap of ash doomed to burn out.
She had always been waiting—waiting for a chance to go to the mortal world.
She wished to draw near humankind, to come into their midst, to feel more closely their "flavor of hearth and home."
And in long observation, she had already found that humans now faced a great plight—
One that could even be said to be utterly blocking their civilizational progress.
That was—stable food.
Under Prometheus and the others' teaching, they already had language, simple symbols, and even learned how to use various stones and wood to make simple tools.
They also learned how to use fire and how to choose and simply modify suitable caves for dwelling.
For the most basic "clothing," they learned to use leaves and hides to make rough garments to cover and keep out the cold.
As for food, they learned how to hunt, how to fish, and how to discern and gather wild fruits.
But many things can be compromised—only food cannot.
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