They (whoever “they” were) were right. The waiting was the worst part. Or was it the not knowing? Or, perhaps just the looming feeling that an entire pantheon of gods were planing to boil you from the inside out because you thought it would be a jolly good idea to play a practical joke on the blooming seat of their godly power in a way that they could never understand because your motives are based on things they don’t feel, like “love” or “protectiveness” or terms they don’t understand like “altruism” or “best interest” when paired with other, equally confusing terms like “of others” and instead just see things in shades of “self interest” and “amusement” the way supreme beings are apt to, especially when they had a depressingly and in many ways literally non-existent childhood which is all sad and pity inducing and whatnot but still gives them no right to bully other defenseless, well not defenseless—but certainly at the very least under-powered, gods like yourself and your in all actuality defenseless son who is, after all, just a mortal and, despite his thirty years on earth, still a child where compared to beings who can hope to live for an eternity of millions of years which was the inevitable life expectancy of the gods who (he wasn’t certain how but) were definitely out to get both him and his son and why had he thought this was a good idea in the under—
Prometheus slapped himself…hard. He was spiraling, and he knew it. There was nothing he could do now but wait patiently for the outcome of his several gambles.
Whether deceiving and possibly humiliating Zeus had been a good idea and whether setting him on the path to create Epimethius’ mate at this point in time had been wise would still remain to be seen. All he could do was wait and see what it was that the council of Olympians would do and then run any needed damage control.
He didn’t think they were actually planning to boil him from the inside out (at least, he hoped not, Cronus had done that to him once before for a practical joke involving a golden fleece, a volcano and, perhaps, the only case of celestial Acne ever seen. Well, it had not been a pleasant experience…though the furies were still out on whether it was worth it. The joke had been a brilliant laugh) but he was certain they were planning some sort of vindictive revenge.
Finally he couldn’t take it any longer.
“Centaurus!” he called.
The quiet groomsman emerged from the stables.
“My pegusi, quick.” It was not the first time Prometheus had snapped at the Centaur, but it was the first time in a while.
When his chariot was ready he flew. He reigned his team toward the coast and let them fly without holding back.
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“So,” Epimethius was clearly making an effort—a small effort, but an effort nonetheless—to contain his snorts of mirth. “let me get this straight: you tricked Zeus into choosing to let me only sacrifice the parts of the cow that are useless while letting me keep both the skin and the meat? You did this at Olympus, without a disguise, and in front of all the other gods?!”
“You are being very cavalier about all this, Epimethius.” Prometheus was a little peeved that his son didn’t feel as strongly as he did the impending doom coming their way.
“Father, you’re insane.” Finally, Epimethius could hold it in no longer and he let out a great laugh so varied in volume and tone and so long in duration that it may very well have been the world’s first symphony.
Prometheus stared at him flatly. “They are out” he spoke the words slowly after Epimethius had exhausted his vocal mirth, “to get us. Do you not understand? This could be the last night on earth for either or both of us.” That was an exaggeration, but condemn it all to Tarturus, Prometheus was here to have his concern validated, not laughed at.
“Oh, come now, father. You’re immortal, they cant kill you…well, not permanently anyway. So what do you have to worry about.”
“There are worse fates than death, Epimethius, especially for those who cannot die.”
That sobered Epimethius up just a little.
“Very well, so they’re out to get you.” He looked at Prometheus sternly. “Without overstating the facts the way you’re all too apt to do, what is the worst you can reasonably expect?”
“It’s not me I’m worried about.” Prometheus said sullenly. “You’re the mortal one of us and the only reason I stick around this worthless space boulder of a planet.”
“As flattering as it is that you think my home, which I’m very fond of, by the way, is a worthless space boulder, you avoided the question.”
Prometheus sighed, sometimes he forgot that all those years as he was raising Epimethius, Epimethius was also being raised by him. Being able to read the other person in their father-son relationship was very much a double edged butter-knife.
“Okay,” he relented his overreaction, “They care very deeply—at least for the time being—to appear benevolent. In addition, they can’t openly do anything to either of us without admitting that I pulled a fast one on Zeus, and I don’t think his pride will ever allow him to admit that to himself or to anyone else.”
Epimethius gave his father his best I-told-you-that-you-were-overreacting-and-now-that-you’ve-admitted-it-let-us-all-remember-who-the-more-rational-one-in-this-family-is look.
“But that doesn’t mean they won’t hit back in other ways.” Prometheus said petulantly. “In fact, they’re working on something right now.”
“Ah ha!” Epimethius looked triumphant. “So once again, you couldn’t stand the waiting and came to me.”
“What do you mean ‘again’?”
“Oh never mind, what are they doing now?”
“They’re umm…” Prometheus didn’t know how to tell his son that after fifteen years of refusing to make him a mate, he had contrived to trick a gang of barely adolescent gods to do it for him…and had done so directly after insulting their intelligence. “making you something.” He finished lamely.
“What? a gallows? a guillotine? A tall set of white cliffs with a steep drop and sharp rocks?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You don’t even know, do you?”
Prometheus threw his hands in the air, he knew Epimethius would work the information out of him eventually, he decided to spare himself the agony of an interrogation.
“They’re making you a wife.” He braced himself for the accusing protests of ‘why would you leave such an important task to them?’ or ‘but I like your work!’ and ‘how could you make them mad and then let them choose what kind wife I get? Do you want me to marry a psychopath?’ But instead, Epimethius said:
“That’s wonderful!”
“What?” Prometheus was genuinely confused.
“That’s wonderful!” Epimethius repeated. “So I am finally to get a wife!”
“But they’re barely adolescent gods!” Prometheus protested, “How can you trust them with something so important?”
Epimethius pushed his lips out and raised one eyebrow. “You were ‘barely an adolescent god’ developmentally when you made me. You told me so yourself.”
“But, they have ulterior motives!”
This time Epimethius rolled his eyes along with his neck in an exaggerated movement. “You made me for, and I quote you here, ‘entertainment’. I would rather have been made with that ulterior motive than not made without it.”
“But.” Prometheus searched for why he was feeling so hurt. “Don’t you like my work? Didn’t you want me to make you a wife?”
Epimethius looked at him, kindly this time. “Of course I did, Father! You know me better than anyone in this world it would have been a joy for both of us were you to form my wife. But you didn’t, and you had good reasons for not doing so. As much as I want the wife you would have made, I understand that this is the way it has to be if I’m to have healthy posterity as well. I think what bothers you is that this is not the way you imagined it going.”
That was nearly it. Prometheus had always known it would ultimately have to go this way, but for so long he had harbored the hope that he would find a god who could do the creation for him while he watched over their shoulder and gave direction. There wasn’t a god in the universe that would be humble enough for that. He felt an endless ocean of tears searing the back of his eyes.
“Aren’t you just a little bit worried?” He asked Epimethius.
Epimethius gave a small snort, “Worried? Of course I’m worried! No matter the necessity, I would have preferred it you didn’t upset them before they began.”
Prometheus looked away. “Yes. You may end up with a mean spirited crone at that.”
Epimethius smiled. “But whatever flaws they may give her to start with, I can’t find it in myself to be worried. People change; you taught me that.”
“We taught each other that.”
“Still,” Epimethius continued, “I’d better brace myself for a couple really tough years.”
“Assuming she doesn’t poison you right off in your sleep.”
“What?”
“Well,” Prometheus pursed his lips thoughtfully, “Zeus wouldn’t do anything personally, but if he gave her a penchant for murdering people in their sleep…He wouldn’t technically be responsible.”
“Well that’s a horrifying thought.” Epimethius said, frowning slightly. “Do you really think he’d do that?”
Prometheus laughed, and, for the first time since he had set this whole thing in motion, he felt his tension ease just a fraction of a span. “Not really.” He said. “Zeus is still responsible for the product. A flaw that obvious would reflect poorly on him as a creator. And besides, for all his anger, I don’t think he actually wants you dead.”
“A poor sacrifice is, after everything, better than no sacrifice at all.” Epimethius said.
“Eh.” Prometheus rolled his eyes. “If you say so.”
Epimethius scrunched his eyebrows, attempting to determine what his fathers offhand comment could mean. “Wait…” Epimethius narrowed his eyes. “What….” He worked his jaw up and down two or three times. “It is better than no sacrifice, isn’t it? The cattle I sacrifice serve a purpose don’t they?”
Prometheus remained silent.
Epimethius violently displayed a shockingly robust expletive-derived vocabulary that Prometheus was certain had not come from himself.
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“Are you ready? Do you feel ready? Is that really the best tunic you have? I think we’re a little early so you might still be able to go get a different one, but don’t take too long—we don’t want to be late. We should really—”
“Father,” Epimethius cut in, “Relax.” He mimed breathing slowly. “We’ll be fine, we’re meeting my wife, not delivering a baby.”
“I just, what if she’s not nice? It’s not too late to back out, you know.” Prometheus hadn’t felt this nervous since his own birth.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
“Not too late.” Epimethius agreed. “But a little early, don’t you think?”
The smile that evoked from Prometheus was a wry one.
“You’re right, of course.”
They were waiting in the courtyard in front of the Olympic Megaron. Prometheus had stayed with Epimethius until they had both been summoned before the council of major gods. Even without his prophetic foresight, Prometheus knew that there was only one thing for which they could be summoned. They were to meet Epimethius’ mate, helpmete, wife, companion, second half, partner, there would be many titles for the woman they were about to meet. What puzzled Prometheus was how long it had taken for the summons to come. He had stayed with Epimethius for a full week, before Hermes had appeared to tell them that the project had been finished and they were to appear at Olympus at Ten sharp the next day. A whole week: it had taken Prometheus three hours on a lazy afternoon to create Epimethius. Perhaps Prometheus was just a genius. Perhaps life by comity is a much less efficient process. Perhaps—Prometheus’ own belief—they just took their sweet time to be sure to cook up a really nefarious stew-pot in retaliation for the sacrifice thing. Whatever it was, they were here now. After a week of stewing, fretting, wondering whether they’d given the idea up, thinking about checking in and chickening out, it was finally here. During those seven days Epimethius’ garden had been cleared of weeds so many times that there was hardly a spec of bio matter, good or bad, left and his bookshelf had been dusted so many times that some of the books had lost their covers. For crying out loud (which was exactly what Prometheus really wanted to do at this moment), It had taken six days to create the entire universe which included figuring out a stable structure for the atom and messing up probability fields so badly that somewhere in an alternate universe a dead cat had rolled over in its boxy grave. Six days! For every rock, sun, plant, river, and nebulaic whale. Six days to invent physics and biomechanics and electrical phenomena and aurora borealis. Six days to teach fish to swim and plants to grow and birds to fly and goats to stay out of Uranus’ ivy garden. All that only took six days for three board gods. Whatever, or whomever, Prometheus was about to meet, had taken twelve gods seven days.
Hermes appeared at the entryway of the megaron.
“Well, come on, I said ten o’clock sharp.” As he spoke he gestured to a nearby sundial.
Prometheus couldn’t help a small eye-roll at the insistence on exact time based on a fairly subjective measure. Helios was anything but prompt. One time, he had stopped to “frolic” with a wood nymph and the day had frozen at three o’clock in the afternoon for four hours. The meteorological impact had been sever. Weeks had been spent sorting out the hurricanes and by then most of the Bahamas had been washed under, leaving only a few of the taller mountains as pitiful little islands in the sea.
“Come come, we don’t have all century.” Hermes said.
Prometheus and Epimethius followed the winged god back into the main room of the Megaron. Epimethius had never been in here before, he stopped, craning his neck back to see the ceiling two hundred feet above. Prometheus also stopped, his attention arrested by the pillar of fine white fabric stretching all the way from the floor to the ceiling. It swayed slightly in the air currents, though there wasn’t a breath of discernible convection in the space. Logically, he knew the fabric had been only recently hung, especially when compared with the Megaron itself, yet it seemed as though the windows in the room had been placed intentionally to highlight the fabric so white it may even have been emitting an aura of its own.
“Welcome,”
Zeus’ voice was unexpectedly gentle. Prometheus wondered if he had maybe forgotten about being humiliated a week ago. He couldn’t make himself believe that, but neither did the god king seem angry in this moment. He stood in front of the massive pillar of rippling fabric with the other gods, for once not absently on their thrones, forming a larger circle around the pillar.
Epimethius fell to one knee.
“Mighty Zeus, we obey your summons.”
Prometheus scrunched up his face, Epimethius always seemed to know the right thing to say, which in some ways made Prometheus proud as a father, but as a god who was many millennia the senior of his mortal son, it made him feel foolish. He hurriedly dropped to a knee, mimicking Epimethius’ pose.
“Epimethius,” Zeus spoke the name as though he were a loving father and for a moment Prometheus felt a stab of Jealousy.
“You have performed your duties well, you have been diligent in your sacrifices and oblations to me and your prayers are ever heard.”
Okay, it wasn’t a moment, nor a stab; it was more like a bucket of jealousy which had drenched Prometheus and was taking some time to drip dry off.
“Great Zeus, god of the sky, god of my heart,” Make that a raging torrent of jealousy, “you are the beginning and the ending of all that is or will be. No sacrifice is too great nor duty performed too well for your greatness.”
A raging torrent infested with flesh eating piranhas.
“I am yours to command. Obedience in your service is its own reward.”
…and electric eels.
While Prometheus struggled with his threatened fatherly pride at Epimethius’ (in Prometheus’ estimation, way over the top) greeting, Zeus seemed pleased.
“Your devotion has been noted and will be rewarded.” He smiled benevolently as though he were the only good in the world. After a pause, adequate to allow Epimethius to appreciate his words, Zeus continued.
“What is it that you most desire, my son?”
That was too far; only Prometheus got to use that moniker for his son. If he didn’t actually love his son, he would have given Zeus a piece of his mind and let the consequences be damned. However, he doubted that would end well for Epimethius, so he kept his mouth shut and his posture unreadable.
“Nothing more than to serve you.” Epimethius said, humbly.
Zeus smiled, “That is good, but I have looked on your heart and have seen one desire more, so deep that perhaps even you do not realize it. You have been lonely these many years and want a mate.”
Prometheus could see Epimethius tense, almost trembling with anticipation, not trusting himself to look up lest he break the spell and undo what was about to be done. Being reminded just how badly Epimethius wanted a companion, and the torrent washed itself away, taking the piranhas and the electric eels with it. He, too, would say anything to make this go right for his son.
“We have seen fit to grant you this wish of your heart.” Zeus said. He raised one hand and stepped to the side as two hundred feet above, the clasps which had secured the fabric unlatched and thirty-two massive streamers of fine white cloth fell to the floor, twisting and billowing as they did so, and fanning out in a flower pattern on the polished marble. Aside from being a few flowers short of a bouquet, it was said that Rhea was the most beautiful woman ever created. And Prometheus had believed she was, until he saw the woman standing in the center of what had been the pillar of cloth. She stood, straight and confident, with her chin up and her lips pressed together expectantly; the air, still churning from the fall of cloth, caught at the deep mahogany waves of hair and gently caressed them back and forth as though a sunset tide had been distilled into the tresses. Her eyes were the brown of a tropical hibiscus bred into the color of life. The smile in her eyes was so potent that it seemed to extend down onto the perfectly sized and rounded mouth rather than the other way around. There was a simplicity to the harmony of her face that seemed to suggest the world was on its axis and the stars were shining bright. Her chestnut skin was so flushed with life, that the very gods arranged in a circle around her seemed pale and sickly.
There was absolute silence in the megaron while her beauty worked its charm. Then, finally, she parted her soft lips, raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow a fraction of an inch, and said in a voice that carried every melody for centuries to come, “Who are you?”
The food was exquisite, the company was brilliant. Prometheus’ contribution of first century wine was less than acceptable. All around the meal had been possibly one of the best experiences of Prometheus’ existence.
They were seated around a small table in Epimethius’ house where he now lived with his surprisingly charming wife, Pandora.
“Did you get enough, Prometheus? There’s plenty for seconds and thirds.”
“Oh, yes.” Prometheus hurried to assure her. “I adored the wraps. What did you call them?”
“Gyros.”
“Mmmmm, well the pita was incredible, truly made the Gyros—if you’ll pardon the expression—worthy of the gods.”
Pandora smiled and chuckled. “That’s good, seeing as ‘the gods’ have seen fit to grace us with their presence. But I really must protest, Theus’ feta was the source of any excellence in this meal.”
Epimethius grinned and cut in, “Come now, dearest, we all know I like cheese as much as the next man—and a whole lot more than the last—but I must agree with father on this one. Take away the fillings and I would still be happier than a satyr in a flower patch with that pita.”
Pandora flushed and gave Epimethius a playful push.
“I, too, must protest.” Prometheus said bowing slightly. “A god’s presence is no grace.”
“A goat’s presence is a grace if it is shared freely.”
If someone had compared Prometheus’ presence to that of a goat, however favorably, seventy years ago, they probably would have learned a valuable lesson in heat transfer and particle physics. Now, however, with both his belly and his heart full, he laughed deep-throated from his belly.
“However,” Pandora continued, “your presence is an infinite blessing above a goat.”
Prometheus guffawed even louder.
Epimethius and Pandora stole a quick kiss.
If the universe could sigh in contentment, it would have done so in that instant.
It had been three weeks since Prometheus and Epimethius had been called to Olympus to meet Pandora—three wonderful, exciting weeks of discovery and companionship for all three of the beings seated around the little table. Once he had finally been convinced that Pandora was harmless, Prometheus had tried to leave her and Epimethius alone as much as possible so they could get to know each other. But they thoughtfully had included him in some dinner or excursion nearly every evening. Prometheus knew it was just Epimethius taking pity on his old father, but he was equally certain that this was the best thing he had ever been a part of.
“You are a wonder, daughter.” Prometheus had been nervous about this for about two of the three weeks that he had known Pandora, he had never yet called her “daughter” and he wasn’t sure how she would like it. She was too even tempered to get angry, but that just made it worse as it meant he may never know if she didn’t like him calling her by such a familiar term.
“Thanks…dad.” She said the word readily, though it clearly still tasted strange on her tongue. Prometheus didn’t trust himself to speak; to be “dad” to both Epimethius and Pandora was more joy to him than he could have once imagined.
“I…” His voice cracked and he had to sit in silence for a moment while the other two pretended not to notice he was crying.
“Shall I get the honey cakes?” Pandora looked at Epimethius with a smile that asked if he needed to talk to Prometheus alone. Epimethius kissed her on the cheek and proclaimed that to be an excellent idea.
Once she was gone, Epimethius reached across the table to put a hand on top of Prometheus’ own.
“Father?” He was inviting Prometheus to tell him anything and everything and nothing as he needed.
“I’m sorry,” Prometheus swallowed his feeling back down into his core. “You know what it was like before I created you?”
“You’ve told me before,” Epimethius chuckled at some memory, “many times. You said you were ‘bored out of your immensely smart mind’.”
Now it was Prometheus’ turn to chuckle. He had indeed said those very words to Epimethius during his son’s young years.
“Yes, but it was more than that, though.” Prometheus leaned back in his seat. “I was less than alone in the Universe. I wasn’t even good company for myself. I was drowning in a sea of selfish gods and I was one. I was not simply bored before you, I was miserable. For seven thousand years I was miserable. Then one day I thought, ‘maybe if I make a race of people, I’ll be able to mess with them for the rest of eternity and things won’t be so bad. It was selfish, I was going to fill the world with people and then divide it into teams with the other gods and we would use our peoples as disposable game pieces to battle for dominion over the earth. When one of us won, we would mark a score on the cliffs of Olympus and start over again. It was a despicable plan. But then, when I gave you life I gave myself life. Suddenly there was nothing more I could want because for the first time in seven thousand years, I was happy. But you were not, and that was a thorn in my happiness. I see now that I did not approach the entire situation of Pandora’s creation right. In fact, I went about it entirely wrong. But even so, beyond all odds or anything I had a right to expect or deserve…”
“She’s wonderful.” Epimethius provided.
“Yes.” Prometheus agreed. “She’s wonderful. I did everything wrong, and it all turned out so well.”
They sat for a moment in silence, then Prometheus asked, “Are you happy, Epimethius?” He knew the answer; it practically shone off his son’s face, but he wanted to hear the words. He wanted to know without assumptions.
“Exquisitely happy.” He said.
“Then so am I.” Prometheus said, then, as an afterthought. “Though, I still think they should have named her Periothea.”
He was surprised by the laugh behind him.
“What a dreadfully complicated name.” Pandora had returned with the honey cakes in time to hear Prometheus’ last comment.
Prometheus uncharacteristically turned a shade of cosmic red.
“Don’t worry, father. She already knows what you think of her name.”
“It’s nothing personal.” Prometheus hurried to assure her. “It’s just that I have to find something wrong with the council’s work, they in every other way so far exceeded my expectations…”
Pandora gave him a knowing wink. “And why would you expect me to be anything other than what I am?”
“I hoped you would be what you are.” Prometheus replied. “I expected a psychotic nut case.”
“Why?” Pandora was genuinely curious now. As kind and mature as she was, it was easy for Prometheus to forget that she was still only a few weeks old and without a very firm perspective on recent (or, for that matter, ancient) history.
“Nevermind, dear. It’s not important.”
Pandora looked crestfallen and Prometheus felt bad about bringing it up in the first place. He knew how much she liked answers, and he knew how unsatisfying a dismissal like that could be. However, he also knew that the Olympians would play a large roll in the lives of these two and he didn’t want to poison her mind against them right now, especially when—judging by Pandora herself—they really did seem to be out performing early expectations.
“Shall we?” He asked, gesturing to the honey cakes in the hopes of diverting attention away from his unfounded fears of Olympic gods.
Pandora smiled sidelong at him, clearly understanding what he was doing but not making an issue of the point. She passed the pastries out and the three were quickly enthralled by the dessert.
“What is…there’s a tangy flavor this time that seems new.” Prometheus hated to break away from his treat, but he had to ask the question. The new flavor filled out the sweet of the honey and turned what had been pleasurable in his mouth into a wild party that left him panting and begging for more.
Pandora smiled mischievously. “Nevermind, dear. It’s not important.”
Epimethius snorted at the reversal and nearly choked on his own honey cake.
Prometheus winced but said, “fair enough.”
Pandora laughed. “I’m just teasing, father. I added some vinegar and wine this time mixed in with the honey. The idea came to me sometime last night and I couldn’t be satisfied until I’d tried it.”
“That, my dear, was a brilliant idea. May have even been inspiration from the gods.”
“If so,” Epimethius cut in, “could you put the gods on a more limited plan? She has ten or fifteen of those ideas each day and she can’t rest until she’s tried them all…most of them don’t turn out this well.” He shuddered, ostensibly remembering some ill fated cooking experiment from the last week.
“Hmmm, upon reflection,” Prometheus said, “the failures are probably the divinely inspired ones.” Turning to Pandora in an over-dramatic confidential manner: “We don’t have anything this good on Olympus.”
All three laughed.
When the universe came into being, Eros created many beautiful places, amazing vistas, and isles of perfection. But that night, there was no more perfect place on earth than the little hut in a valley in Greece where three family members sat eating honey cakes.