“Company A, with me!”
A large set of Cyclopes rushed passed Prometheus led by the shining skinned charisma of Poseidon who, ever since escaping his fleshy prison, had been a powerful general in Zeus’ army.
None of the would be combatants seemed to see Prometheus, their attention almost entirely fixated on the army of minor river gods and wood spirits interspersed here and there by a Titan of supreme strength; all of which impressive force was arrayed in a sprawling moon at the other end of the valley.
Prometheus had to wonder once again what any of them were doing here. Was he the only one who realized that a war between immortals could not accomplish anything beyond lowering the property values of an entire planet? Perhaps not. Perhaps there was more wisdom in this war than he knew. Either way, it was inevitable and he must participate. He was, ready to enlist. Aside from the ominous warnings of the fates, he knew that when Zeus won, he would need compelling evidence that he was on the younger god’s side. He was a Titan, after all: one of the old guard. His demographics were against him, so, he had to do something to make a public statement about how he was on Zeus’ side.
“Nephew!” Prometheus tried to ignore the thousand spears that were automatically pointed at him by the Hecatonkaries. “Welcome to the world of the exuberant!”
World of the exuberant? It What did that even mean? It was cursed hard to focus with that seething wall of spears and hands and eyes all giving him special attention.
Zeus looked up from the large table spread with a war map to see Prometheus and held up a hand, indicating for the Hecatonkaries to stand down.
“What is your name and why are your here?”
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Zeus seemed distrustful of Prometheus—an understandable reaction for the general in a war, considering Prometheus had never been formally introduced with his own face—but Zeus wasn’t about to throw away a potential ally, either. His position was still too tenuous for that.
“I am Prometheus. Son of Uranus. Malcontent of Cronus. Uncle and supporter of the great Zeus.”
Zeus’ eyebrows had raised in surprise when Prometheus had spoken his own name.
“So you’re Prometheus?”
Now it was Prometheus’ turn to raise his eyebrows in surprise.
“Are you familiar with my person, Lord?” He used the honorific intentionally, hoping that it helped him sound supportive without sounding either sycophantic or insincere.
“I know your name.” Zeus replied. “My mother has told me a great deal about the role you played in saving me from my father. You are welcome here.”
Prometheus almost laughed out loud when he realized the implications. Rhea had indeed been as good as her threat when it came to mutually ensured destruction. He had been concerned when, visiting the teenage Zeus on his island, he had found the young god’s education lacking, but Rhea had clearly spared no effort in making sure that if anything did go wrong, then Prometheus would come to light as the other primary actor. Whatever her intentions had been, Prometheus was grateful for it now. His task of getting into the army would be made immeasurably easier by her paranoia.
“Thank you, Lord Zeus.” Prometheus said. “How might I best serve in this war against your father?”
The young god looked uncertain for a moment.
“Are you any good at strategy?” He finally said.
“I have been known variously as the god of wisdom and the god of mischief.” Prometheus smiled. “You may take that how you will.”
Zeus thought for a moment. Then, he too smiled.
“Come.” He said. “You will be a chief general over my army.”
Poor, trusting boy. Prometheus had no intention of betraying Zeus, but he couldn’t help being critical of just how easily the boy god had trusted him based on no more than the word of his mother (hardly a trustworthy source herself) and his own willingness to help. This time, it would be to the boy’s benefit. Next time, Prometheus could only hope Zeus’ simple trust wouldn’t get him hurt in the intrigue laden world of the gods.