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Do not anger the Gods.

Or be wary of them, at least. Their wrath is not one you would like for yourself, little one, and their punishments are often bitter.

Take Sisyphus, the deceitful. He murdered the travellers and guests that stayed in his palace, and disrespected Zeus’ hospitality. He then tried to cheat Death by chaining it to Tartarus, bringing about years of pain and undying suffering to all of humanity. The treacherous scoundrel, once man and king, now rolls his boulder up the same mountain everyday, only to watch it fall back down. Up and down he goes, mad and sad and bound to eternal toil. He cannot escape this unending journey, no matter how weary, no matter how weakly.

And remember Tantalus, who stole ambrosia and nectar from the table of the Gods? He ignited their ire without a care in the world, except maybe for himself. Now, he stands next to a pool, underneath a tree bearing perfectly ripe fruit. What a treat, you’d think! Or it would be. The water recedes as soon as the thief approaches, always just out of reach. He can only touch the fruit with his fingertips, famished and parched, his throat like sand, until the end of days. Always within temptation, he sways between despair and comfort, never to be relieved.

Do not trust the Gods.

There are few tales as miserable as that of Orpheus the poet, and his wife, Eurydice. She died rather suddenly, bitten by a sneaky snake. Orpheus wept on the way to Tartarus, to try and convince Hades and Persephone to help him. The rulers agreed after hearing his sorrowful ballad, but on one condition: he could not look back on his cherished sweetheart. Whether the poet was tricked or tripped, I do not know, but one thing is sure: he was forced to turn back and watch Eurydice die a painful death, for the second time. As she sighed, one last time, she treasured the day she got to see her lover again, a brief respite against the injustice of death.

Do not think yourself more clever than the Gods.

I see plenty like you, little one, with wit and cunning and courage, roaming the winding roads of Tartarus. Like you, they all thought they could get away with their plots and schemes, especially Prometheus, who brought us fire, knowledge and food. He tricked the Gods, over and over again, with only the humans’ sake in his heart. He stole the flames that Zeus had taken away, hiding them inside a fennel stalk. But now, for having enraged the king of Olympus, his torment is endless and restless. Chained to a mountain, he wakes up every morning to his liver getting eaten by an eagle. He wails and cries, but no one can hear him; as his liver grows back, his only certainty is that it will get devoured again. He cannot find solace, condemned to be consumed, time and time again.

Do not envy the Gods.

Do not play into their feuds, either. And if they start caring about you, wanting to give you their favour, run. They will use you as pawns in their twisted little games, burning the grounds to ashes. They will leave humanity hollow and broken, trapped in battles they lost interest in. Souls still err in death, killed by the Trojan War for having chosen the wrong sides when gods bickered. Was it unavoidable? Was it taken too far? You could ask Achilles’ anger, or Patroclus’ bitterness. Nothing good comes from those eternal creatures, standing atop their mountains and clouds.

The Gods, they don’t love like us, because they know nothing of survival, of mortality. They don’t live, because they cannot die. They fight when they are bored, sleep when they are wounded, and punish when they are hurt. Do not get too close to them; their plans and tempers are as changing as the twilight sky. Keep your head low and your hubris lower and, maybe someday, you will lead a peaceful life, not wrought with the destruction, jealousy and childishness that only the Gods can bring about. 

But, whatever you do, little one, heed my warning : do not anger the Gods.