It is for Odysseus that my heart bleeds.
How long ago did I say those words? I thought my father uncaring for them, but he was right. He always was, it seems, save when the Fates spoke against him.
Different names. Different faces. Still they blame us for their failures. Good counsel we could give, if they but listened. But they in their greed must have everything. And though they no longer call me Pallas, still I hear.
Power great enough to destroy their world with the power of suns, and still that was not enough. I thought that perhaps if I gave still more, they might learn.
Now their world is gray, covered in the sins of their hubris, and the few left — blame the skill, the art I gave.
Did I do right father, now that you are not here to see and nod your head?