Once we lived in a place where the earth was solid beneath us, the sky above was blue and lit by a golden sun, and the seasons changed each year with regularity. Storms raged when the Titans willed it or the Gods shaped it so; at times there was drought, or fires, or floods; and yet in the main all was well and the world continued in contentment and joy. Or so I remember it.
The Titans’ Fall ended all of that. The world was perhaps an artifact of their creation, or at least supported in some sense by their existence, and when they died, so to died our world. The shuddering of the earth, the wrenching bursts of whole continents shifting out of place, the violent spumes of seas that boiled and churned under black storming clouds, and the endless noise of those long Last Days. The world was shattered and broken, and if some parts of it survived, it was by luck and chance, that they were near where the torn and broken bodies of the Titans lay. From those remnants came the power to save such bits of the world as were saved, though the strength of Men, for the Gods, the few who survived, were useless against this danger.
Men shaped the power that flowed from the Titans, shaped it with will and fierce need, and created the fragments in which we live. That there exist many, I am certain, though my eyes have never, and perhaps will never, see them. But I cannot conceive that no Men save where I chanced to be had the will and determination to save themselves; I cannot think that is true. I cannot think no one else shaped shelters of stone, with air and water and fire within, and Men and beasts as well, and the cold Void kept out by need and power.
I cannot believe we are alone. I will not believe that.