It was not his first summer. Indeed, the boy had just come through his second winter. But Prometheus was willing to accept that summer was not really summer when one could not yet walk by the streams and run through the meadows and go to bed remembering the soft touch of evening’s last breath on their neck. In that sense, this was Epimethius’ first taste of summer.

“Take care not to fall in the creek.” It was not that Prometheus didn’t trust his charge’s good sense, the boy showed remarkable intuition for one sixteen months old—but he was not overly trusting of the fickle river god, minor though he was, and his frolicsome court of water nymphs. Even in this tiny valley in the farthest corner of the world—so far from the beauty of his Grecian homeland that the lowlands adorned the uninviting death of winter with bitter mantles of white snow—even here Prometheus and his care were plagued with deities. The only benefit to the imbeciles of this underwhelming, over-glorified archipelago was that they were so far beneath the ruling Titans’ notice that there was almost no chance that word of Prometheus’ son would ever get back to Cronus. That, for now, was imperative. And so, as loathsomely annoying as these divinities were, the mutual ignoration between them and Greece made their company a worthwhile trade.

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Prometheus closed his eyes, trusting Epimethius with his own safety for just a moment, and felt the power of Helios on his skin. Despite his disdain for his brother personally, the long awaited relaxing of muscle and follicle that his warming power provided was a welcome comfort. Unfortunately, a moment was all he could spare for such purely self-centric pleasure.

He opened his eyes in time to see his charge bouncing—in the manner of the newly balanced and nearly sped—dangerously close to the creek.

“Epimethius!”