Meanwhile, Zeus's beloved goddesses were also having a wonderful time in the mortal world.
The three sisters of Hestia went down together.
They hid their forms, drew in their radiance, and kept a low profile, not even reaching out to Prometheus or the Muses.
They only wanted to use their own eyes to carefully observe these newborn humans.
They trod through snow and mountain winds, walked along river valleys and forest glades.
They paused wherever cooking smoke rose, listening to the clink of stone tools and the crackle of firewood in the bonfires.
They saw rough hides draped over thin shoulders, and children happily chasing drifting dandelion fluff.
They saw men and women, the old and the young, gather around the firelight, singing and dancing in the moonlight, thanking Fire and the gods with the most simple and sincere feeling.
They saw little ones learning to roast fish over the flames, though more often than not the fish ended up charred.
They also saw injuries taken on the hunt, choking and drowning while fishing, and hunger endured when food ran short.
Over these months of watching, the warmest and most loving goddesses grew fonder of humans by the day.
Humans as they were now were extraordinarily pure and natural, like first snow upon the earth, unstained by dust.
Their lives were simple and hard, yet optimistic and resilient, full of curious, eager sensing of the world—all of which made the goddesses love them dearly.
Humanity's hardships moved these great Mother Goddesses to deep pity.
They also pondered how they might truly help humankind.
Only, born gods that they were, faced with the development of a mortal civilization with no precedents to follow, they could not for the moment find an answer.
They truly could not think of a way to lay a path humans could walk on their own without interfering with their autonomy.
They themselves had never had the survival troubles of mortal beings.
And what could be taught—the most basic knowledge of survival—Prometheus and the Nine Muses had already taught very well.
Hestia also told Hera the greatest problem humanity presently faced.
After much discussion, the three goddesses agreed that what humans needed most now was food that could ensure the stable survival of the race.
And in this, Demeter, Mother of the Earth, could certainly provide.
But at Hestia's urging of restraint, before they were sure of what Zeus truly intended for humanity's future, they pressed down their own impulses and continued to observe.
In their travels they also met Adrasteia and Ida, who had long since gone down.
These two godmothers of all beings—the goddess of loving guardianship and the goddess of loving nurture.
When the second generation of humans was born, these two goddesses felt a subtle tremor in their own domains.
After investigating, they found it was stirred by the propagation of mortal beings.
Zeus had been "busy," and bored, the two of them went down together to look in on things.
Gentle and loving as they were, they quickly and unsurprisingly grew fond of these pure and lively sapient beings.
These dear children sent their inborn motherliness spilling out unchecked.
All this time, they had also been quietly, diligently tending the human infants.
If not for their hidden protection, those unknowing humans truly would not have known how to care for children.
These likewise unknowing, overly curious human infants—if left only to human parents who had no experience at all—would indeed have suffered terribly.
After all, Prometheus and the Muses have no idea how to raise children.
They were born with mind and body fully mature—adult gods—and never experienced anything like an "infancy."
Being single gods, they also had no experience with childrearing.
Even if they did, it would not apply to mortal beings.
Gods and humans, in the end, are not the same.
A great many gods have no infancy.
Even those who do are easy to tend—give them enough nourishment and it is enough.
Even if not, it hardly matters; at most it means growth proceeds more slowly.
Unless other gods lay hands upon them.
Otherwise, even in infancy, no matter how they cause trouble or make mischief, there is essentially no risk.
This is entirely different from those fragile mortal infants.
Handled the wrong way, you could choke a child just by feeding milk—that is not impossible.
Though Death does not exist, and perhaps they would not die, the suffering would only be worse.
True, Adrasteia and Ida had no experience caring for mortal infants either.
Caring for Zeus doesn't count; Zeus's infancy was very short—and besides, he was Zeus!
Apply Zeus's care regimen to mortal infants and you'd be lucky if any survived at all.
Even so, their domains are suited to tending children; they knew at least something of the "art of nurture."
And all beings had long had experience with propagation and continuity, so they learned quickly; with their domains' aid they could extrapolate, and soon they set up a whole system for caring for mortal infants.
They quietly imparted the ever-improved knowledge of childcare into human thought.
They let humans know how to hold, how to feed, how to soothe, how to understand the meanings of different cries.
They also labored in person in the shadows, and only thus were the second-generation humans able, despite some stumbles, to grow up healthy.
After the five goddesses met, being "the God-King's own household," they naturally gathered and continued to tour the various human tribes.
And because of this, their movements grew ever larger and finally attracted the attention of Prometheus and the Nine Muses.
Prometheus hurried over to pay respects to the five goddesses, grinning so wide it was nearly to his ears.
These five goddesses were among His Majesty the God-King's closest and most favored!
Prometheus thought to himself: if humans can win their favor, it would be all to the good for humanity's future.
If they come to truly love humankind, and then put in a good word for humans before His Majesty the God-King, so much the better.
The Muses, after paying respects to Hestia and the others, separated again to continue teaching humans.
Prometheus, full of little schemes, personally led the five goddesses and gave them a detailed introduction to humanity's present condition.
But precisely thus, Prometheus outsmarted himself.
He introduced literally everything about humanity to the goddesses.
And in his speech, he could not help a few irrepressible notes of pride.
Prometheus, beyond doubt, held the deepest love for humans.
Humanity was his proudest and dearest creation.
Thus his attitude toward humans had grown a touch too indulgent.
Whenever humanity ran into "too hard" a problem in their development, he was never averse to using divine might to solve it directly for them.
When the river flooded, he bent it; when the storm was too fierce, he shifted it elsewhere; when game was scarce, he had herds pass through.
And Hestia noticed all of this with a sharp eye.
She found that, by this point, Prometheus's way of doing things had in practice become the greatest obstacle to humanity's self-propelled progress.
Whatever problems mortal beings meet in growth are but trifles to gods—things that can be solved with a turn of the hand.
But if a race's experience of growth is to be deeply engraved into the foundations and blood of that race, then they must do it themselves, experience it themselves, overcome it themselves.
Yet now Prometheus had done far too much for humans—things he ought not to have done.
Much of it was no longer "guidance," but "doing it for them."
So lost in "playing house" with humanity was he that he was on the verge of forgetting the God-King's commands.
The relationship between gods and men—this most serious subject—he had yet to set down in writing, and indeed did not think much of it.
Yes: now and for a long far future, so long as Prometheus wished, he could continue to shelter humankind like this.
But when the day came that Prometheus could no longer manage?
Or when he grew weary of it?
At that time, a humanity that had always lived in "swaddling" would suddenly have to face a brutal reality they could not possibly resist alone.
Their end would be foregone.
Only destruction.
It is like an infant who, if he can proceed step by step through crawling, learning to walk, falling, getting up again…
Then when he grows up, he can face the adult world calmly.
But if his parents are overindulgent, allow him no setbacks, and solve every problem he meets for him,
then when he steps alone into the adult world, his end is already decided.
Indulgence is never a good way to teach.
Indeed, it is not true love at all.
It is a gentle strangling done in the name of love.
A god may educate, may guide a race's growth, may lend a hand at the critical point.
But must not take it all upon himself and be responsible for everything to the end.
Gods do not exist to be a race's "nanny."
If a race never learns to grow on its own, then gods will in the end grow weary.
At that time, even if the god does not destroy them with his own hand,
the moment the god turns away, destruction will inevitably enwrap them.
Even if a god never grows weary, there will always be causes of one kind or another that force a god to leave.
Then the final result is the same.
Prometheus's present attitude toward humankind is full of love and pride.
But beyond doubt, it is not equal and cannot be equal.
He remains in a lofty stance, granting and caring as "creator" to "created."
And thus, beyond doubt, if things continue like this, Prometheus will in the end grow tired of this "ever-demanding closeness," and choose to leave.
This point is certain.
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