It had been too long. The creation of a new governing body of Gods was no small task and in between the renovations to Olympus, determining loyalties, reshaping the world, and that unnecessary but excessively emphasized rebranding of the younger gods as “Olympians”, there had been very little to no leisure time for anyone involved. The result was a series of nearly seven months during which Prometheus had seen Epimethius even less that during the war.
Fortunately, he had finally finished his latest task, assigning a different gift to each of the animals. Now, he didn’t ask for permission; he was flying his chariot—the newest fad in celestial transport—to Ithaca before he was even finished granting the last gift, an unfortunate rush for the doddering little bird who was supposed to have received great intelligence; the casting had gone awry and the dazzling intelligence that was to make the bird an apex peace keeping arbitrator of the harsh (and not just a little overbearing) predator-prey binary system, had instead become dundering indifference: a trait that would almost certainly doom it as a species to a peaceful life and an early death. No matter. Prometheus would correct that later—give it a reconciliatory island where it could live away from the dangers of the newly endowed world. Now, however, was not the time; he was eager to check in on Epimethius.
Something Zeus had said early on regarding Epimethius had bothered Prometheus in an indefinable way. But aside from “checking up on” he mostly found himself inadequately equipped to return to his godly life the way it had been before the war. There were actual demands on his time now. He had responsibilities outside of his little family of two. But his heart and soul were still with his son.
He willed and whipped the ten marbled pegasai, pulling his chariot faster through the sky.
Finally, after what must have been the longest ten-and-a-half minutes in the last seven thousand years, Prometheus saw it: a large wood hut marked by an ornate lentil over the doorway. While Prometheus had been involved in celestial espionage, deific war, and the glorified janitorial work of post-war clean up, Epimethius had spent years building, expanding, and refining their home. Though there was very little stone in its construction, the wood was exceptionally well crafted—the design a work of both genius and art. Prometheus found himself swelling with pride at the sight of it.
“Epimethius!” His voice boomed over the valley as he landed his pegasai in the meticulously cultivated field out in front of Epimethius’ house.
There was a moment of silence broken only by the snort of one of his panting pegasai.
“Epimethius!” Prometheus called again.
A sound came from inside the house and then the door burst open to reveal the stocky but handsome man with a dark curly mop of hair and powerfully built arms that Epimethius had grown into. He was wearing a simple brown tunic that, much like the exomis that Cronus had used to wear, somehow still managed to look as regal despite its simple cut.
“Father?” Epimethius blinked as his eyes adjusted to Helios’ bright presence in the sky.
“Ah! My boy!” Some meetings are too special to be recorded. This was one of those.
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“I have been busy. Most recently, Zeus had me bestowing different gift upon every animal in the world. Though why he wanted me to spend time on such a project is beyond me.
Epimethius looked at the ground to his left. They were strolling in Epimethius’ vineyard and the cool air played through the still mostly green leaves.
“You mean that for the last seven months you’ve been off giving gyros to pigeons?” His voice was half sarcastic, half jovial and…Prometheus wasn’t quite sure what it was, but there was the barest hint of something hiding under his words—something unsettling.
“No, not quite that.” Prometheus laughed. “No, to pigeons, I gave pity.”
“They will have pity?”
“No, they will incite pity. Especially from your descendants. I dare say that, eventually, this gift will feed them, house them, and allow them to proliferate anywhere that you or your progeny go.”
“You mean that whenever I see a a pigeon I’ll feel compelled to feed it instead of eating it?”
“Something like that.” Prometheus smiled. “Only, you probably won’t know why.”
“I already don’t know why.” Epimethius snorted softly. “And you had to give a different such gift to each animal.”
“Yes. And, let me tell you, it was difficult coming up with a new thing every time. Many were near repeats of others and some were barely boons at all. Causing almost as much trouble as benefit.” He paused. “Enough about that; I came here to see you. I have missed you for the last seven months—”
“It’s been lonely here too.” Epimethius cut in.
“Yes,” Prometheus shifted uncomfortably as he felt the double accusation in those words. He still had not provided a mate for Epimethius. “But,” he continued what he had been saying, “I also came to finish my task. You are the last of the creatures on this earth to whom I have not granted a gift.”
Epimethius smiled. “Do I get to choose?”
Prometheus held up his hand. “It must be a characteristic that you and all your descendants will be able to share. It must be a benefit to you so that the inhabitants of this world may be the most precious over any other world: such were the restrictions placed on me by Zeus.”
Epimethius looked thoughtful. Prometheus continued:
“I give to you, alone of all the animals, a choice.” Prometheus said the words, though they hurt. Even though Epimethius had been a man now for almost as long as he had been a child, Prometheus found it difficult—very difficult—to trust his son’s own judgment, no matter that time and time again Epimethius had proved himself to be wise (perhaps even wiser than Prometheus) and worthy of any and all trust bestowed. It was a combination of fierce protectiveness and a desire for everything to be the best for his son that drove Prometheus even now to choose on his son’s behalf. But he knew that to do so would not only estrange them from each other, but that his own decisions would not necessarily be the better of the two. He had raised Epimethius too well for that.
“Such a choice should not be taken lightly.” Epimethius rubbed his chin and then was silent for a long moment. Finally, he said, “My choice, and I don’t make this lightly, is to return to you what is rightfully yours. You plucked me from a tree”—Prometheus winced inwardly as he realized he had never corrected the lie he had told when Epimethius had asked where he had come from. He hadn’t thought at the time that he could tell the child that he had been in such a messy process as being sculpted out of clay—”and” Epimethius continued, “raised me to manhood. You have always chosen wisely and I wish for you to choose this in wisdom as you see fit.”
Prometheus let out a long breath. “I am gratified by your confidence in me.” The sentence seemed formal, but it was a momentous occasion which required some formality. “In that case.” Prometheus spoke slowly.”I grant to you and your descendants, alone of all the animals of earth, empathy.” The word, imbued with power as it was bounced off the surrounding hills for some seconds before settling over Epimethius and changing his very nature. “The ability to feel what you fellow creatures are feeling: joy and pain. This, above all gifts,” Prometheus tried to forget about his botched last job with the dodo, “will be a blessing and a curse. It will not help you survive, but it will help you live.”
The pair had stopped walking and turned to face each other for the exchange and now Epimethius respectfully bowed slightly.
“I will cherish it all my days and will attempt to teach its value to my children.” His sentence, too, was overly formal as the occasion demanded, but it was sincere.
Prometheus put a hand on his shoulder. “You have grown to be a great man, Epimethius.”
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“You’re still the same doddering old ancient one that I strongly suspect you were born as.”
With that the formality of the situation was broken and the god and mortal returned to their former stations as father and son.
“So tell me.” Prometheus said wryly. “Have you stopped raising cattle? You once had vast herds and now I see only a few scrawny beasts wandering aimlessly around your land.”
Epimethius pressed his lips tightly together. “Zeus,” he seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “is a jealous god.”
Prometheus again stopped walking, his brow furrowed at the comment.
“What do you mean, Epimethius? do not burden me with riddles.”
Epimethius was silent for a long moment, he clearly had reservations about what he was about to say.
“The streams,” he began, “are filled with lesser water gods, the glades are full of nymphs, the fields are full of satyrs, and the world resounds with the praises of Zeus. All of creation rejoices at what he will do.”
To any of the creatures that Epimethius had named, the statement would have seemed nothing but honorific and appropriate. Prometheus, however, had raised Epimethius from infancy. He understood the unspoken meanings behind not just what Epimethius said, but how he said it: Zeus has ears everywhere,” he was saying, “and the promise of what he might do is not good enough; what he’s done will show who he is. Until then, I must be careful what I say about him.
It was a masterful sentence, with just enough reverence to remain unnoticed while maintaining clear undertones for Prometheus.
“Have you…” Prometheus paused, considering his phrasing. He believed that Zeus would be a good ruler for the people of earth. But he trusted Epimethius’ judgment too much to disregard it. “How do you show your devotion to the new god Zeus?”
“As commanded, I have sacrificed a cattle every day to the greatness of Zeus.” He paused for a long moment, considering before continuing on. “My herd is thin and my belly is empty with devotion.”
This was getting dangerously close to sedition.
“It is my privilege to make this daily sacrifice.” Epimethius continued carefully. “For, I would not sacrifice my children.”
Once again, Prometheus felt the meaning of his ward’s undertone: It’s not a problem for me alone—a man can live on very little by himself. But when the time does come for me to share this world with posterity, we as a species will not survive without the sustenance of our herds.
“I will think on the meaning of your words.” Prometheus phrased his reply carefully to indicate that he had understood what Epimethius gestured to. “You will hear my reply before ever you are called upon to teach your posterity how to homage the gods.”
The pair continued their walk in thought-filled silence.
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It wasn’t until Helios was at the end of his journey, when he sent his army of red and purple messenger sprites out from his western palace to grace the sky, that Prometheus finally left. He had lots to think about and he did so as his Pegasi flew him almost haphazardly toward Olympus. He was upset with Zeus: a bad position to be in where the new king of the gods was concerned.
In the natural course of consolidating power, Zeus had been relatively harsh with any possible dissenters to his reign. Prometheus was not one such disorderly, he still believed that Zeus would be an excellent king of the gods. Notwithstanding, he could not overlook the fact that he appeared to have been intentionally misdirected to an unimportant task so that Zeus could play power games over Epimethius. Prometheus was doubly affronted because Epimethius was both his son and the representative of an entire race to come. It was unacceptable that any god, especially a god whom Prometheus had chosen for the sake of humanity, should treat his creation as just a way to flex. He would not—
Prometheus realized that he needed to calm down. “There are three parts to this story,” he told himself, “the man’s, the god’s, and the cow’s. You’ve only heard one so far.”
He was making unavoidably good time to Olympus, though the trip was less pleasurable than the previous one to see Epimethius. The fields were still green and Greece was still…greasy, but the air seemed colder. Perhaps that was because Helios had already finished his journey and night had come, perhaps it was a reflection of Prometheus’ mood.
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He landed in the courtyard of the opulent megaron that served both as the seat of government and as Zeus’ home. A centaur hurried out to see to his horses. It hadn’t taken long after Zeus came to power before the god of blind hubris, Ixion, had possessed the audacity to try to sleep with Zeus’ wife, Hera. Zeus, being forewarned of the plan, had fashioned an exact copy of Hera out of a cloud and named her Nephele. Ixion, lust blinded dolt that he was, had apparently either not realized the difference between a cloud and a goddes, or not cared. The fallout was that Ixion was now rotting in in a cesspool in Tartarus for his attempt on Zeus’ wife and the cloud had—somewhat surprisingly—shown itself quite fertile. A strangely short time later, Centaurus was born, one who was half horse and half man. That was what they said, anyways. There was, of course, another plausible story in which a nimbus derived “Hera duplicate” had only ever existed as…cloud cover, if you will. But, Prometheus did not care to challenge any official or unofficial event that could possible suggest Hera herself could give birth to half a horse. However the conception had taken place, it was not long before Centaurus had been offered the position as groomsman for the Olympic stables. Prometheus had initially been surprised. He had thought that Centaurus would perceive it as a slight on his equine nature. However, none could deny the ability of the man-horse with his near cousins. In every way pertaining to the horses, he was the most adept stable master ever to ply his hand. Unfortunately, in dealing with the non-quadruped guests, Centaurus was quite literally an equus asinus. Prometheus, however, fully sympathized with the antisocial caretaker’s preference for horses over gods.
“Keep them well.” It was the ritual greeting of the gods for the one “favored” to watch over their mounts. Prometheus personally felt like the majority of the time it sounded—and perhaps was intended—like a threat.
Centaurus said nothing which was his personal ritual answer to the pretentious who fancied themselves “higher intelligences.” He took the team of pegusi and lead them slowly toward the stable where they could be unhitched.
Prometheus peeled his attention away from the already vanished stable-master, and took a moment in the courtyard to contemplate what he was about to do. Despite Zeus’ pronouncement that he “knew Prometheus’ part” in the the ultimate coupe, he held no delusions that Zeus would tolerate even the slightest challenge to his authority. Prometheus could not, therefore, just tell him to stop demanding sacrifice from Epimethius—no matter how much he wanted to do just that. This was a time for diplomacy. He could not help but feel that being the god of mischief, he was but poorly suited for this task.
Feeling, justifiably, that he had no plan and less brains, Prometheus entered the Megaron. Unlike any house, palace, or other important building built by even the most drunken chicken with the barest modicum more practicality than pride, the megaron had no front entryway, no vestibule, no staging area, and no opening hallway. Rather, it opened directly into the great throne chamber itself. The effect was quite stunning. Arranged around the hall, spaced every fifty feet or so, were seven great thrones in which were seated the greatest of the Olympians: Athena, Ares, Poseidon, Hades, Hera, Aphrodite, and—at the head of the hall, seated higher than the others and draped in a brilliant golden tunic, was Zeus himself. Good as his word, Zeus had divided his dominion and shared the power over the earth. Of course, discounting his offer to Prometheus, he had only done so with his siblings—with, as they called themselves, the Olympians. Already, the Titans were nearly forgotten of a different age. Those who were too powerful to brother with were left alone, the rest were ignored.
As he entered, all the gods heads turned to look at Prometheus as one. The effect was disconcerting. Not because of the spectacle so much as the overwhelming impression that before he had walked in the seven gods seated around the room in governmental splendor had all been sitting after dark in absolute silence. It was as if the most powerful collection of beings in the known universe didn’t know how to be alive.
Prometheus shook his head to clear it and then spoke.
“My king, Zeus.” Prometheus raised a hand to his chest and dropped to one knee as soon as he had reached the center of the room. He didn’t know what to say, so he started from a safe base.“I have completed the task which you set for me. I have divided all the gifts in the world among all the animals of the world.”
He waited for a reply. It was long in coming. Finally, Zeus raised his hand in what was almost a theatrical gesture and said, “This is good, uncle.”
Prometheus waited, Zeus didn’t say anything more. After the silence in the room ran beyond the comfortable and even the uncomfortable limits of what a conversation can support, Prometheus cleared his throat.
“What is the news from Olympus, Lord Zeus? I have been gone for quite some time on my recent assignment and have heard no news of the doings of the new government.”
That seemed to break the silent reserve of the god king and he, in an admittedly still somewhat disinterested voice, began at almost the moment Prometheus had left and told the differing designations of his supporters and the converse punishments of his detractors. As he mentioned each of the gods in the hall with their respective domains—Poseidon over the waters, Hades over the under-earth and afterlife, Aphrodite over the love of all creatures with Ares as her counterpart holding dominion over hate and pain, and so on through the gods—each would straighten in their thrones and subtly increase their auras as if demanding respect on behalf of their domains. Unfortunately, the effect was overpressed by their detached natures. Finally, without any sort of closing formula or postamble, Zeus ceased speaking. For several minutes Prometheus waited, wondering whether the king of the Gods was, indeed, done. Yet another awkward silence assured him that it was so and he fumbled frantically in his mind for something to say. He wanted to bring up the Epimethius, but in his uncertainty of how to do so, he heard himself saying, “and how is your mother?”
A single look at the lowering brood on Zeus’ face convinced Prometheus that he had said the wrong thing.
“She is…persistent and demanding.” Zeus said in a low growl.
The obvious displeasure in Zeus’ voice combined with the bizarre ambiance in the room threw Prometheus off balance until he felt his brain hiccup. He knew he should confront Zeus, but before conscious thought knew what was happening, he had asked for and received a new assignment and left.