The pain never stopped.

It was relentless, prodding, picking, tearing, clawing, screeching, repeating.

Prometheus had nearly forgotten what it felt like to have a full liver. It had been years—decades?—now with no relief, no news, no companionship. He had felt no prayers—and why should he? He was powerless to help himself, he could do nothing for others. This was the life—or rather, eternal death—that he had chosen. He was proud of that choice, glad to know that Epimethius and Pandora had been given a chance to continue on together. Their happiness was still his everything…but…it hurt, so much, so long…

An eagle fluttered down to rest on Prometheus’ thigh. Once, he had thought these birds majestic. Now, they looked worse than vultures to him. Scavengers and thieves, peons of pain. The eagle cocked its head at him, perhaps trying to gauge emotion, perhaps wondering what flavor he would be today, most probably grumbling to itself that it had to be an all you can eat liver bar, any self respecting eagle would prefer sushi. But, even an eagle knows not to look a gift-course in the spleen.

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Prometheus looked defiantly back at the eagle, as he always did. Its black eye was unreadable, as it always was. Then, something beyond the eagle, past the mountain in the sea caught his eye. It was a ship. Rough wood, huge sail harnessing the wind to cut through the water at a respectable clip, fine, functional workmanship in its own way. The work of the children and children and children of his children.

The eagle began its grizzly work.

Prometheus smiled faintly before he screamed.