Wine, fine meats, drunken follies, raucous laughter, rinse, repeat.

Prometheus felt too keenly the boorish barbarity of these feasts. He moved from the finely carved entryway of the gilded hall to stand as inconspicuously as any Titan could near one of the many massive pillars that lined either side of the room. Fortunately, though he didn’t doubt that he was conspicuous, in a room full of megalomaniacs every person is primarily obvious to exactly one person. Gods, it seemed, bore an especial knack for putting both the “mega” and the “maniac” into their defining personality type.

Prometheus glanced around the hall; Oceanus and Helios were both sprawled on lavish couches, Oceanus surrounded by piles of polished white pearl and deep red and blue corals, while Helios was veritably encased by polished or cut gems so that every time he moved the room exploded with light and color, both gods were also surrounded by literal piles of the best foods and wines, and each was rapidly summoning spirits to serve them and just as rapidly dismissing these servile apparitions on whatever whim in a show of dominance, all the while glancing hawk-like at the other to see if they had yet conceded the power of their respective domain.

Mnemosyne was laughing in that way she did—throwing her head back and releasing just four or five calculated syllables of mirth—as she played her usual mind games with Coeus who looked very put out, as could be seen in his vitriolic stare which remained leveled at Phoebe.

Crius and Iapetus were engaging in self-aggrandizing debauchery. Meanwhile, Theia, Tethys, and Themis were sensationally laying plans for an as of yet underdeveloped portion of Greece; the result promised to be a wonderland of adventure and beauty all based on a central theme of…well, Prometheus didn’t doubt it would be an experience.

Here and there, in-between and out from among flitted nymphs, serving the Gods and, in turn, trying to catch their eye in a vain hope that one of these deific beings would prefer her for a wife over one of the radiant goddesses who barely deigned to notice the “help,” unless their husbands stared too hard.

Hyperion, Prometheus’ first-born brother, alone, sat quietly in his seat, observing the proceedings. If he had noticed Prometheus, he didn’t give any indication.

Everything together provided a good scene for his current purposes. Prometheus would shake the world tonight, but he wanted to gauge the general mood first.

Cronus, the king of the gods, entered, with Rhea by his side. They made their way to the raised dais at the end of the hall and sat in regal brood on what could no more be called a throne than a god—a porcelain doll. Indeed, each of the other eight gods in the hall sat in magnificent thrones of their own, and any of those—if thrones could be capable of such an act—would have groveled in awe at the feet of the royal couple’s seats of power.

As Cronus sat, the rest of the noise in the room quieted; an impressive feat in a room of Titans, even for Cronus.

“Brothers,” Cronus never acknowledged his sisters when addressing a mixed group. However, Prometheus was by no means certain that it wasn’t a victory for him to address anyone at all. At the moment, he was literally the center of the universe—and he knew it. The annoying thing about Cronus—one of the multiple trashpiles full of annoying things—was that he acted like location and importance were synonymous. “Welcome to my feast!” Cronus continued. “We are the Titans, I am your king…”

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Prometheus braced for a long winded, unbearably boring, speech. Looking around, he saw the others doing the same. He even caught Oceanus yawning behind his hand—that was folly, even for one with the might of the oceans behind him. Cronus had spoken for a full year once. By that point in his life—after the first six thousand years—time hadn’t seemed to matter to Prometheus. What’s a year next to forever? Prometheus could sit perfectly still while a fly danced on his eyelid for a year, literally without batting an eye. But after that speech…the grapes had been fatter, the trees had been taller, the wind had been more refreshing, the pita had been more delicious, he had blessed every second that he was free. At some point during that speech one of the other gods had dared to fall asleep. As far as Prometheus knew there were still bits of Grios floating around the East Indian Sea. The worst part was, Prometheus had felt a little jealous at the time. Even leaving in a confetti cannon meant leaving, not having to listen anymore, ever again. Prometheus harbored a secret belief that the worst punishment in Hades was a little white room where you had to listen to Cronus’ ego speak for eternity.

This was totalitarian bureaucracy at its finest—and it made Prometheus sick.

A noise interrupted the monologue: the crash of fine metal against marble followed by a sharp intake of breath. Then the stillness of horror. One of the serving Nymphs had tripped in her eagerness to bring wine at the beck of Crius.

Except for a barely perceptible tremble, the Nymph remained perfectly still, huddled on the floor as the wine spread out from her as though it were blood draining from her body, nobody moved.

The other Nymphs especially remained perfectly still, horrified at the blunder, unwilling to draw attention to themselves by offering help, each certain of what was to follow. The Titans looked on in bored amusement. Some of them were, no doubt, glad to have Cronus interrupted. Though all feared and perhaps even respected him, Prometheus’ own opinion of these speeches was almost universally shared. In fact, one of the audience full of gods had probably intentioned the accident with their unfathomable power just for the sake of the interruption itself. If that was the case, however, they would never admit it.

For his part, Cronus was white faced, with clenched jaw, and bright purple veins appearing on his arms and forehead. His eyes, radiant gold iris and pearl lined whites alike, had bled to a black so deep they seemed to actively devour the light in the room. The unpardonable sin had been committed. He had been defied.

“What” He said the words slowly with a pause between each one. “is the meaning of this?”

The question was rhetorical. The only meaning there could be was the one that he decided. Everyone knew it. The Nymph’s shoulders shook with new force as she sobbed silently.

“You dare to interrupt the king of the gods: He who threw off Uranus and freed the Titans from the Earth: the one power to rule all powers? You…defy…me?”

More rhetorical questions. The nymph said nothing.

“Stand up.” Cronus snapped.

The nymph’s body moved like a puppet on a string. Though she would have gladly moved on her own—tried to show her devotion to the Titan by prompt obedience, that option was no longer available. Cronus’ will had been superimposed over hers. He pulled her toward him with jerky steps till she was standing directly in front of him, facing the gods at the table, many of whom now seemed eager for the stomach-turning spectacle that awaited.

“On your knees.” Cronus snapped.

For the first time that evening, Prometheus felt the bundle under his cloak wriggle. In the silence of the feast hall the tiny grunts that came from it sounded to his ears like a herald’s trumpet. Fortunately, nobody else seemed to notice. He bounced it lightly and prayed to whatever gods were still good that the child would remain silent. He knew what was coming.

“Those who disrespect me feel my wrath.” Cronus hissed.

Prometheus felt his abdomen tighten. He turned and slipped out of the hall, shamefully—the thought with its accompanying emotion struck him for the first time in his life—leaving the nymph to her horrible fate. Once, he would have sat through the spectacle with indifference. Now, the bundle under his cloak seemed to burn its condemnation of his apathetic inactions with every gentle breath it took. He was suddenly acutely aware of the many flaws in what had been his plan tonight.