Gravity was a good god, and that was his downfall. He always did his job, pulling things down or together, and did so with such reliability that humans could measure him. How Loki laughed at the idea of a god with such low self-esteem that he let himself be measured. But Gravity broke none of the rules: humans still couldn’t see him or talk to him directly, and he never tampered with someone else’s domain. Loki never had to fear Gravity playing tricks.
The problem came, then, that
humans didn’t fear him like they did Loki or Zeus, and they certainly
didn’t revere him as they had the sun or that Jesus kid. They made
planes, helicopters and went to the moon without so much a prayer –
except the typical calculations for landing and such. Even when he did
something nasty it was always the suicidal prick that jumped off the
bridge that got the credit, not Gravity for providing the very force
that enabled the tragedy.
The rise of scientific thought only
insulted him further as people believed less in his friends, but never
even bothered to question his existence. He wasn’t even part of the
cultural debate. One year Carl Sagan, of whom Gravity had always been
very supportive, actually mocked theology by saying no one prayed to
gravity. Then one morning Gravity picked up Scientific American (well,
not “picked up” – he never picked anything up that he didn’t have to)
and saw some theorist asking why gravity was so weak in this universe.
snapped and finally took old Loki’s advice. They’d regret not
appreciating him. They’d regret it when gravity ignored them, and they
learned the terror of floating.