Epimethius walked quickly, stumbling often.

What just…? He tried to think. If I can’t….are we all doomed, then? Is that it? Why couldn’t she…or I…. Maybe this is my fault too? But I can’t just ignore what she did. And now…what will this mean for the future? What will this mean for our children and their children? Is there still happiness for us? What now? Why? Why? Why?

He finally stumbled into a clearing and fell to his knees. It had been hours since he had left their…his…their hut and he no longer knew where he was, nor did he care. He had seen what had happened—had seen those things forming, slipping, pooling, growing, sliding out of the jar like the worst kind of dream. Then Pandora had told him her part in it all and he had felt sick. He had loved…still loved…would always love her more than his own life, but he couldn’t just accept what she had done. Blatant disobedience to the god…to the very King of the gods himself. There was one universal code of morality and that was obedience to the will of the gods. She had broken that code. He knew, logically, that he should feel nothing but disgust for her now. That would have made things easy. But he didn’t.

“Oh, Pandora. What have you done?” He pitched forward on his knees until he was laying face first on the ground.

“Ah, there you are.”

He rolled over at the familiar voice so that he was on his back staring past the tops of the trees.

“Oh, father.” He said, not looking. “I don’t know what to do.”

“First off,” Prometheus’ face appeared above him. “You can get up off the forest floor and talk to me like a rational human being.”

Epimethius chuckled; he was anything but rational at this moment in time. Still, he rolled once again and used his hands to push himself up.

“Pandora did something…bad.” He said.

“It’s about time.” Prometheus said. “The wait was killing me.”

Epimethius shook his head to clear it, sure he had misheard or misunderstood Prometheus.

“What?” He said.

“I said.” Prometheus repeated. “It’s about time.”

“Time for what?”

Prometheus sighed. “Oh dear, this is going to be a difficult conversation, isn’t it?” He looked Epimethius in the eye and spoke slowly and clearly. “It’s about time she opened the jar. You know, the one that Zeus gave her. The one that contained death and disease and all that awful junk.”

Epimethius was too shocked by what Prometheus had said to say anything himself.

“Don’t misunderstand me.” Prometheus held up one placating hand, a gesture that seemed wholly insufficient to Epimethius considering the sentiment that his father was in the process of expressing. “I’m no happier about the misery and loss that just took over the world than you are. But it was a torment for that poor girl every day she didn’t open the jar.”

“How can I—”

“Forgive her?” Prometheus, for the first time in Epimethius’ memory, sneered. “That’s easy. Blame me.”

“What?”

Prometheus sighed. “It’s simple.” He said. “Blame me. Two words; not much room for interpretation.”

“But, I don’t understand.” Epimethius felt himself on the verge of frustrated tears. Was his father trying to ruin further what was already the worst day of his life?

“Look.” Prometheus said. “Why did Pandora open the jar?”

Epimethius was silent for a long moment before he finally said, “Lack of discipline, imprudence—”

“No.” Prometheus was sharp. “For just a moment, I want you to think not as an injured party. Forget all your emotions. Why did Pandora do what she did? Forget about what attributes she may have lacked and think about what it was that drove her to open the jar.”

Epimethius thought back over what Pandora had told him.

“Hey curiosity?”

“There you are.” Prometheus said. “You know that when Pandora was made, the gods each gave her an attribute, so if she was given overpowering curiosity and then placed in a situation where that curiosity was harmful, then it can’t really be her fault, can it?”

Epimethius bounced his fist against his leg and shook his head. “I understand what you’re saying, but she is still the one that opened the jar. I can’t just forgive that.”

“Epimethius,” Prometheus’ voice was gentle, “perhaps the question should be how can you blame her for anything? She’s not responsible for doing something in error. Zeus didn’t just tell her not to open the jar, he told her there was nothing in it. She had no reason to think it was dangerous. Add the curiosity on top of that, and I must reiterate, if you need someone to blame, blame me.”

Something finally connected in Epimethius’ brain and for the first time since Prometheus had appeared, he realized that he was not simply saying ‘don’t blame Pandora’.

“You didn’t have anything to do with the creation of Pandora.” He said uncertainly. “What would I—”

“Not everything is simple, Epimethius….” Prometheus stopped for an interminable moment before continuing. “The first time this event happened, I was as distraught as you are.”

“The first time?”

Prometheus gently shushed him and continued on:

He had been nervous about meeting Pandora. Of course, at that point he hadn’t even known her name. Still, this was his daughter-in-law-to-be and he still felt some guilt about the necessary action of letting Zeus and the others make her instead of doing so himself. Then the time came; they were summoned to mount Olympus. When the curtain fell to reveal Pandora, he had caught his breath every bit as much as Epimethius had at her stunning beauty. Meanwhile, she had looked around lazily, opened her mouth and spat, “Enough with the curtains already. Is that the man you’ve been telling me about? Not too much to look at, is he? Couldn’t you make me a better one?”

—Epimethius tried to interrupt at this point in Prometheus’ story, it was not, after all, the least bit the way he remembered things, but Prometheus stopped him with an upraised hand.—

She was insufferable, horrible; all the good traits that the other gods had given her were swallowed up in an all consuming pride. She was “too good marry someone like Epimethius,” she was “too good to have a father-in-law who was only as minor a deity as Prometheus,” and when she saw the “shack” that they expected her to live in…it had been four hours of misery before Zeus popped by to give her the jar. She no sooner had it in her hands than the lid was off and she was complaining about the disappointing contents. As death and misery and loss filled the world, she asked why it didn’t sparkle and why she couldn’t wear it. She couldn’t even be convinced that any of the released entities would affect her. She was “too much for death to handle.”

Two weeks later, both she and Epimethius were dead and Zeus was congratulating himself on a revenge well taken while he planned a new race of beings that would be perfectly subservient.

—Prometheus paused for a long moment in telling his story, overcome by the memory of loosing Epimethius. He had blamed himself for what had happened.—

“I couldn’t bear the loss. I did what even Cronus had been afraid to do, I rewove the tapestry of time.”

It had been difficult. Even a god cannot go back in time in a physical sense, but the conceptual eather where the material of creation exists is outside of time entirely, and, if done carefully, past interactions with the eather could be manipulated. At first he had tried to remove arrogance, so that when the gods would give it to Pandora, there would be none to give. It was true that time had morphed and she had not opened the jar. However, the result was that Zeus opened it himself and, in so doing, abandoned the pretext of benevolence. Once again, neither Pandora nor Epimethius had lived long after that. And so, Prometheus had taken the only option available. He had replaced the attribute of arrogance with one which would still result in Pandora opening the jar, but not in the needless deaths of either her or Epimethius. He replaced it with the forbidden attribute: curiosity. So when the Olympians reached to grab arrogance, they had unintentionally given her a questioning soul.

It had not been an easy task. Curiosity, of all attributes had been deemed “dangerous” all the way back through the oppression of Uranus. An understandable reaction as it, above all other attributes, poses a threat to the tyrant. In the marshal world of gods, then, the the succession of supreme rulers with their coups had thought it too dangerous for any intelligent creature to posses, and so they each banned or re-banned it. Uranus had, as had Cronus after him, and, now, Zeus after him. But Prometheus knew the key. He knew that curiosity was kept in a box at the base of Hephaestus’ forge. He knew it was guarded by a massive cyclops son of Poseidon. He knew that any who thought to take the attribute, called by some the “fire of creativity,” would be foolish to think they did not risk all in doing so. And so, he once more donned his disguise—the very same disguise that he had used on the island of Crete to visit Zeus—and made his way to the Hephaestial cave.

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Sure enough, there was the cyclopes (what was his name Eroginese? Demosanabrtese? Antinahesperodosclonoginthese? Prometheus decided to go with Bob-ides) pounding hot metal, looking board enough to murder.

“Well, if it isn’t my friend the Cyclopes.”

Bob-ides had slowly turned his massive eye to the stranger. Then, turning back to his work, he picked up the massive blade of glowing metal and plunged it into a bucket of dark liquid which hissed and sputtered furiously as it leeched the ample supply of heat from the iron, leaving it dark and hard. Having accomplished that, the cyclops had turned slowly back toward the disguised Prometheus.

“Old man. What do you want?” The cyclopes spoke slowly in a voice that closely mimicked the sound his hammer had been making as it pounded the forge in thunderous clangs.

“Want? Want? I want nothing.”

“Every being wants something.” The Cyclopes had looked suspiciously with his one eye at Prometheus. His huge single eyebrow had pushed dangerously low on the craftsman’s face in what on a face with two eyes would have been a glare, but here had more closely related to a scowl.

“Forgive me.” Prometheus had inclined his head. “I spoke inaccurately. What I meant was I want nothing, from you.”

Satisfied, the cyclopes had risen his back to a stage of mere discontentment.

“The more important question,” Prometheus had continued, “is what you want from me?”

The eyebrow had lowered once more and the massive cyclopes stooped to look at Prometheus’ disguised face.

“You can give me nothing that I cannot make on my forge.” Had been the sneering reply.

Prometheus had restrained his natural impulse to correct the cyclopes by reminding him that it was Hephaestus’ forge. Instead, he had said, “Anything, hmm? I hardly think that can be true.”

The Cyclopes had looked incensed at this insult to his skill.

“I,” He had taken two hulking steps toward Prometheus so that Prometheus had found himself wishing he had chosen a disguise that wasn’t so wizened. “I have forged lightning for Zeus himself, and you question my skill?” It had been thin ice, there was no doubt about that. For half a moment, Prometheus had wondered whether this had been the best plan after all. But, the good or bad, currently it had been his only plan and he needed it to work.

“I don’t know.” Prometheus had said doubtfully, “Can you make valuable things?”

“I am the best smith in the world.” The Cyclops had boasted, perhaps forgetting that he worked for and under Hephaestus. “I can make anything.”

“There are some rather valuable items in this room.” Prometheus had kept his voice doubtful, his expression troubled. “Did you make it all?”

“No.” The cyclopes had pouted. “But these are worthless next to what I could make.”

“Okay,” Prometheus had held his hands in a placating gesture. “I’ll take your word for it.”

The cyclopes had growled something under his breath and then stalked to his forge. “I will show you.” he had said.

For the next three hours, Prometheus had watched in awe as Bob-ides had pounded and worked. Though his own opinion of himself was certainly overdone, there was no denying that the Cyclopes had prodigious talent. Finally, he had finished; on the anvil had been a bird so lifelike it was breathing.

Prometheus had let out a long breath between his teeth. “My apologies, master Cyclopes.” He had said, “It would seem I underestimated your skill.”

This had seemed to gratify the Cyclopes to no end.

“What will you do with your masterpiece? Surely it’s worth more than anything here.”

This had seemed to trouble the Cyclopes for some moments before he had placed it on a high shelf.

“The earth shakes every time you pound your anvil.” Prometheus had said. “If you put it there, it will fall.”

The Cyclopes had realized his lapse in judgment and had then moved to place it in an alcove by the forge.

“The embers from your flames fly about the room,” Prometheus had said. “It would be a shame to see such a delicate piece sullied by careless placement.”

This had really seemed to stump the Cyclopes. After a pause of great length to consider his options, Bob-ides had finally hit on an idea. Going to the forge, he opened the little container and removed a box that had been within. This is what Prometheus had been waiting for. Inside the box, he had known, was the trapped attribute of curiosity.

“There, is truly a safe place worthy of your work.”

The cyclopes had looked wonderfully pleased at the praise.

“What is that box?” Prometheus had tried not to look too eager.

The cyclopes had looked troubled and then had said, “It is just a box.”

“Really?” Prometheus had looked at the cyclopes sidelong. “May I have it?”

“No.” The cyclopes had clearly not known why the box was important, but as clearly had thought that it was.

“Well, may I see it, then? I am something of an expert at item appraisal myself.”—A statement that had been given all the credibility necessary by his unrestrained recognition of the Cyclopes’ own skill—“I may be of use.”

The cyclopes had grudgingly let Prometheus near enough to look closely at the box. It was exquisite workmanship, but clearly not from the same hand as the bird and so Prometheus had felt confident in saying, “Ahhh. It is as I had feared. I come across these baubles every now and then, but I didn’t expect to see one here. This is an early crustaceous work of the antiquities. It appears valuable on its face, but ultimately it’s just tourist junk. I myself wouldn’t be caught dead with one of these in my possession. This belongs to you?” He had plastered an innocent look on his face.

“No. Hephaestus.” Was all the cyclopes had said.

Prometheus had tsked several times then said, “You really should save your master’s dignity and dispose of this bauble at once. It would be shameful if it was discovered that he had a prize piece of tourist trash.”

The cyclopes had looked wide-eyed for a moment before his eye had narrowed to a suspicious slit. “You want to take it?” He had asked.

“Me?” Prometheus had guessed a trap. “I already said that I wouldn’t be caught dead with the thing. Honestly,” He had assumed an offended air. “I may not be as glamorous as the Olympic god of the forges, but have a reputation to maintain as well. I will thank you to keep your suggestions to yourself.”

The cyclopes eye had once again been as large as a ceramic dinner plate as he had realized that the stranger was not trying to cheat the establishment out of a fine piece of work. Seeing this, Prometheus had made his excuses, turned on his heel, and left.

After approximately four hours, just long enough—in Prometheus’ estimation—to not seem suspicious, Prometheus had removed his disguise and returned.

“Greetings, friend.” He had been careful to change both his voice and his speech patterns. If this grift was to work, then he could not be recognized. Ideally, in fact, he should have been doing this with a partner. But there was no partner to be had.

Just like the first time, the cyclops had slowly turned from his work to see the stranger.

“It is unusual to get visitors here.” He had rumbled, “And now I get two in one day. Most strange.”

Hoping he hadn’t made a gross miscalculation, Prometheus had waved aside the comment with a nonchalant air.

“I’m here in search of a fine container of some sort, a vase or pot or something.”

The cyclopes had pondered for a moment longer than was absolutely necessary, before his eyebrow had nearly merged with his far receded hairline and a devious grin had spread beneath his nose like mold on a Titanic loaf of stubbly bread.

“Maybe you want this?” The cyclops proffered him a old iron vase with a substantial crack down one side.

Prometheus had blanched.

“I’m not looking for a trash pot. I want a fine work to hold a prized possession.

“Fine work is not cheap.”

“I’m willing to pay.”

The cyclops, looking immensely self satisfied, had picked up the box, which had lain negligently on a shelf since the visit earlier that day.

“This is a very good box. It would cost you much.” The cyclops had proceeded to name a price which he no doubt thought extravagant based on the recent appraisal that Prometheus himself had given. If this had not all been part of his own grift to begin with, Prometheus would have been impressed with the cyclopes’ cunning—using the first jar to boost the sale of the box. It seemed he was a lying salesman. Unfortunately for the would-be grifter, Prometheus had been in the game far longer than the Cyclops had been alive.

“It looks like a very fine box. I will pay your price.” Prometheus had willingly handed over the payment. He had felt a little bad as he left, knowing that even congenial Hephaestus wouldn’t let the Cyclopes off lightly for losing something so valuable—not to mention the contraband inside. But, he had run out of options and he was willing to sacrifice himself or others, even the entire world, if necessary, to save Epimethius.

—Epimethius was openly crying by this point in Prometheus’ tale. Not a situation that Prometheus had ever been comfortable with, and so one which he ignored here—

It had been easy, from there: swap arrogance for creativity, and then sit back to retroactively experience the best two weeks of his life. With that one change, Pandora had turned out as nearly perfect as Prometheus believed any group of infinitely flawed space egos could achieve. Many of the Olympians had realized this too. In fact:

“Zeus was still upset,” Prometheus said, “but the other gods liked her. That’s why it took him so long, if such a felicitous set of weeks can be called long, to give her the jar; some of the others were so proud of what they had created, that they were against the jar idea at all. Zeus was adamant on that point, though, and with full support from Hera—who continues to be jealous of Pandora’s beauty—he delivered the jar last week.” Prometheus stopped talking. For several minutes he let Epimethius wrestle with this implausible but verifiably true turn of events.

“So,” Prometheus returned to his starting point. “If it was curiosity that drove Pandora to open the jar, then you have no choice but to blame me, for I gave her curiosity.”

“But…” Epimethius stumbled over words getting powerblended with a flaming cocktail of thoughts and emotions. “Why did she have to open the jar at all? Why did there have to be a jar?”

“Because I upset Zeus.” Prometheus said simply. “Once again, my fault.”

Epimethius pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes and shook with silent sobs for some moments more.

Finally, he let his hands drop down to his sides and he turned his red eyes back to his immortal father.

“What do I do?” he asked.”

“First off,” Prometheus said, “you go apologize to your wife for walking out the way you did. She needed you and you left. That’s low. Lower than any son of mine should ever go.”

Prometheus was gratified to see the look of consternation that passed over his son’s face as he realized what he’d done.

“Then,” Prometheus continued, “Your quit worrying about the dang jar.”

“How can I not?!” Epimethius asked. “Death, disease, malice, hate? This doesn’t affect just us, it affects our children and our children’s children’s children. We just—” He broke off, unable to say more.

“Yes.” Prometheus said gently, “The world will be harder, less idealic, painful even. But…do you know why the gods are so afraid of curiosity?”

Epimethius shook his head mutely.

“Because when it’s paired with intelligence, it makes creativity. I didn’t go about this problem haphazardly, Epimethius. The very thing that drove Pandora to open that jar will one day allow your children to conquer every demon that came out.”

“But if there hadn’t been a jar, then we wouldn’t need to ‘conquer’ those ‘demons’.”

“Don’t be foolish.” Prometheus said. “Those things were never connected to the jar, that’s just where Zeus trapped them when they were first born. Eventually, jar or no jar, intentionally or not, they would have gotten out and then you would have had to contend with them without the tool of curiosity.”

“But—”

“Let me ask you this.” Prometheus looked Epimethius in the bloodshot, salt rimmed eyes. “What would you be willing to endure to be with Pandora?”

That question hit Epimethius in the gut. It took less than an eighth of a second for him to think back over the wonders and joys of the last two weeks and answer, “Anything. I would endure anything.”

“Good,” Prometheus said. “Then get back there and make things right with your wife. You’ve wasted enough time here already.”