He is a young god.
He did not experience the creation, the moment when time became reality and life started to move.
He did not see the way in which the elder gods benevolently watched over the first, the original. And some may say, even the best.
He did not see the way the earth itself shifted, just to lovingly tremble under the first's feet. The way the waters lapped at the beaches, inching closer to the being they called their parent.
The elder gods drifted in like sea wood, grazing the waters with their feet and the heavens with their hands, the giants of old.
As the first looked down on their children, fondness on their face, so tender and bright that it hurt to look at, they reached and pulled the elder gods into existence.
The first was not a creator, they claimed, only a medium through which possibilities came to life.
Lives that were just as eternal and beautiful as the ideas and simple chances that they represented.
The humans of new have a saying, the creator tells him, that even the simplest of thoughts can change the most complex of men.
He is born on the eve of survival. He is not a god meant for animals or spirits, or even a higher god; no, he is an embodiment of a human idea.
His golden eyes first open when a human decides to live for something that is not simply just surviving to the next day.
That instant moment when joy of simply being alive was greater than the joy of not being dead, a moment so clear and vivid in his mind. His first sounds are not words, but music.
His mouth opens and what comes out inspires stories and legends, sounds so beautiful that they move humans and spirits alike to action.
As the human race grows, so does he. He watches them with adoration, as without them, he would not exist.
Just like the creator, they too are his parents, from the small infant grasping at finger tips,
eyes barely open to the wonders of the world to the grizzled old man who has seen what the world can do to those not prepared.
His heart is large and open, so full of love and joy that it moves him to dance and sing.
His existence does not remain secret for long, for how could one be unaware of a being that loves so thoroughly that it consumes all?
Just as he'd hoped, the people finally see him and as they start to enjoy life, the stronger he becomes.
He enjoys the offerings, receives the prayers and does his best to live up to the title they'd bestowed upon him; the god of revelry and music.
His name echoes through the countries and people, spread by those who are both innocent and guilty, drunk and sober.
He doesn't care where his followers are from or what they do with their life; he only knows that he is there for when they look for him. Just as he reaches for humans, so do they reach for him.
However, it is not long before the first taste of violence taints his wine.
So removed from the pantheon, so absorbed in his life revolving around humans, he does not hear the drums of war, however loud and aggressive they might be.
His fellow gods greedily lap up the prayers and offerings the humans make as they march against each other, often spiteful of peace and ignorant of despair.
How would a god know of human plight and suffering?
While the taste is not to his liking, he still loves the human race even if he cannot understand them, their actions absurd, laughable even.
He does not consider the individual life, but the greater echo of it; he sees people, not a person.
You too are mortal, just like those you watch, says the creator.
He scoffs at the absurdity. A mortal god?
Oh my friend, they sigh wistfully, you are bound to their fate.
He watches humans with increasingly less adoration and more spite.
Why should he be held accountable for what foolish, stupid, naive humans do to each other? Why would he be dragged down with them, when their existence crumbles to nothing?
Time laughs at him, whispering of the days in which humanity would be but a whisper of the past. The thought strikes him as strongly as a blacksmith strikes the hot iron.
I, too, will die some day.
He drinks his wine, wanting to forget that his freedom is limited, that his time has an end. Spite runs through him, clenching his fists and drawing him into darkness.
He scorns the gods, damning himself to a solitary existence.
Even as his people die, he continues to sit on his throne, singing a melancholic melody for as much as he wants to hate, to despise them, they are still dear to him.
His music and dance become less of a revelry of a day alive and more a requiem to the end.
Thus, he sings and cries for them and himself.