Pandora and Epimethius needed their time together.
Prometheus knew that.
They were coming to grips with this new reality of struggle and sickness and eventual death.
But….
“My children.” Prometheus tried to keep his voice upbeat and succeeded pretty well. Only the smallest tremble graced the end of his…first two words.
“Oh, Prometheus, father.” Pandora seemed ill at ease, like she still expected to be blamed for a terrible wrong, but her voice held equal notes of relief and hope at the forgiveness that had been granted between her and Epimethius. Strangely enough, when Epimethius spoke, his voice carried the same tone, the same tremble. That was good, he shouldn’t walked out the way he did and Prometheus wanted him to know that.
“Things are better,” Epimethius said preemptively. “We’re going to make it.”
He squeezed Pandora who, after a moment of enjoying the hug as a way to still herself, fell to her knees.
“I’m sorry Prometheus, I…I…” She stalled as the tears once again began to spill out of her eyes.
For a moment, Prometheus was confused. Then he realized that she had not been present at his talk with Epimethius: she thought he might still blame her.
“I did a terrible thing.” She finished.
Epimethius gently picked her up off the ground and again put his arm around her. “Hey, it’s okay. Neither of us blame you. He” he nodded to Prometheus, “helped me to see that I would rather have a world filled with every demon in that jar and a whole pantry more if it meant being with you.”
For a long moment nothing was said as emotions flowed too freely to make room for words. Then, Prometheus coughed, " I have come to say goodbye.”
That made everyone stop. Epimethius and Pandora both almost seemed to forget each other as they stared at Prometheus with incomprehension.
“Goodbye?” Epimethius finally asked.
“Yes.” Prometheus sighed. “You’ve done so well, Epimethius, I will forever be proud of you. And you, Pandora, I wish we had more time. You’ve been wonderful to my Epimethius and for that I thank you.”
“But—” both Epimethius and Pandora started to speak at the same time. Then, each realizing that the other was speaking, both fell silent together so as not to interrupt the other which left Prometheus the opening he needed to continue speaking.
“I cannot say how much you both mean to me,” he hurried on, “what you’ve done for me. But gods are not meant to walk among men. I cannot stay forever.” He hoped that sounded profound. In truth, the difference in their natures had nothing to do with his decision. His real reasons, however, were his own and he neither wanted to increase his own pain nor that of the couple by trying to explain what would certainly only make sense to himself.
There were protests. Prometheus could not deny that he was gratified that there were even tears, but he was adamant: he had to leave and he had to leave now.
He couldn’t have picked a worse time, Epimethius accused. They were already dealing with the fugitives from the jar, why did he have to put them through this at the same time?
Prometheus wanted to explain, to tell them that the two were obviously connected, that he was leaving to protect them from Zeus. That they could never have normal lives if he didn’t do this now. That he had seen into the future and this really was the only way—
But, he didn’t.
Instead, he made light of how much easier their life would be without a crotchety old man of seventy-six hundred years bothering them at all hours of the day. He told them that he would always be nearby. He told them to live well and love always and stay strong and be safe, especially around stuffed gods.
There were more tears, there was more distress, when Prometheus couldn’t bear to drag it out any longer, he left.
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Prometheus slowly made his way toward mount Olympus. There were no Pegasi nor was there a chariot this time.
This time he went on foot. He wanted the time to organize his thoughts, if such a thing were possible. He had one last confidence game to play and he had to do it right. This one would, perhaps be the most important of his career and possibly the most difficult as well: he had to tell the truth.
In all too little time, he had arrived at mount Olympus.
It was a different experience—walking through the gate rather than landing in the courtyard. It required a journey through an imposing archway flanked by posts and lentil and covered with a slant roof. The scale was clearly built to impress, as, when Prometheus increased his own size in an effort to reassure himself, the scale of the arched passageway only increased exponentially so that the bigger he grew the smaller he felt.
Perhaps because of that, and perhaps because he didn’t want to face this—what he knew could be his last trial of will—as a giant more than a man, he quickly returned his size to something roughly analogous to Epimethius and Pandora. In a way, that did help him to remember why he was there, which in turn made his breath come easier and his skin feel cooler.
The tunnel leading from the arch to the courtyard seemed interminable. At first it was like putting his eye like to an inch-wide hole stretching the length of a mountain. It was dark with the smallest blinding glimmer of light at the far end. Prometheus went toward the light. As he drew near, the light swelled to fill his vision until, all at once, it was a window, beyond which there was visible grass and vines and marble pillars and flowers and the megaron wherein Prometheus knew his fate would lie. He walked toward the megaron.
There was no Centaurus to greet him this time, the reticent centaur would only come in fulfillment of his equine duties.
And so, Prometheus was alone as he walked trough the massive pillars that made up the entrance to the Olympic palace.
As before, the hall of the megaron was impressive but cold and and impassive. The gods were arranged as before, seated on thrones both imposing and uncomfortable in a huge semicircle around the disturbingly empty space in the middle. Prometheus felt himself entirely unequal to the task of filling that space. All of a sudden he felt his mere human size acutely as he stared up at the brooding forms of the Olympic counsel.
“Zeus.” When he spoke his voice was dry.
“Ah, uncle. No doubt you have come to address your charge’s negligence. I fear that the people have released a great evil in the world against my express wishes.”
Sure they did. Though he kept his face perfectly neutral, Prometheus allowed himself a hint of bitter sarcasm in his thoughts. He idly wondered whether it was the word “against,” “express,” or “wishes” that Zeus was intentionally misunderstanding.
“Not so, Lord Zeus.” Prometheus had pondered desperately for several weeks before deciding on this course of action. It terrified him, but he had decided that it was the best and, possibly, only way to protect everything he had done in the last forty years. “I have come to address my own wrongdoing. I and no other am directly responsible for the great evil which is now in the world. Against your own decree, I stole the fire of curiosity from out of the foundry of Hephaestus and gave it to the mortal woman, Pandora, whom you so excellently wrought. In my own arrogance, I thought to replace her vanity with this curiosity. This is why she broke trust with you in opening the jar against your express wishes—for it was a mystery, and curiosity cannot abide a mystery.”
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He had seen Zeus stiffen as he spoke, a number of pieces connecting in his mind to show him why things hadn’t been happening quite in the timeline they had predicted. Certainly, the absence of vanity explained the congenial behavior of the woman.
“You have done wrong, Uncle.” Zeus said slowly.
Say it. Prometheus thought. Just say it.
“It seems that the entirety of the blame can be laid on your shoulders.”
Prometheus breathed an inward sigh of of relief. That was the corner that he had been backing Zeus into.
“It grieves me.” Zeus continued. “You have been one of my great supporters, even providing the plan for my escape as an infant from my hated father.” Prometheus was surprised to see a small sliver of malice at that statement, not toward Cronus, but toward Prometheus himself.
“However,” Zeus continued, “I cannot let such flagrant disobedience stand in my face. I hereby absolve the mortal people of guilt in this matter. However, your punishment will be sever and eternal.”
Prometheus felt a small pang as the pronouncement was made. Somewhere, deep within his immortal soul, he had hoped to receive only a temporary punishment, seven or eight hundred years maybe, and then he could retire his exhausted bones to Hades where he would find Epimethius and Pandora and stay with them for the rest of forever. Alas, it seemed that was not to be.
Still, his primary emotion was relief at the accomplishment of his goal. With someone to punish, Zeus’ anger would be appeased and Epimethius and Pandora would be safe. And supposedly, without Prometheus there to meddle anymore in godly affairs, they would remain safe.
He was surprised to see the relief evident on Zeus’ face.
Glancing at the other gods, Prometheus readily gleaned why. He knew that many of the other gods (Hera excluded) were unexpectedly fond of Pandora. With rules broken and punishments required, there would have been some additional tension between the majority of the Olympians, who were opposed to hurting Pandora, and Zeus’ own stubborn need to appear strong and harsh. Prometheus’ own willingness to be a scapegoat had just satisfied both sides of that coin. Zeus could maintain a strong front while not alienating the rest of the ruling counsel.
Prometheus sent up a silent prayer to whomever gods pray toward that this would be a lesson to Zeus that his sacrifice might serve an additional purpose of forging a better king of heaven.
“Your word is absolute.” Prometheus said grimly.
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It was a tall mountain with a good view, a flat rock, and a pleasant breeze. All in all, not the worst prison to be stuck in for eternity. Of course, the manacles which kept him spread on the rock like some bad imitation of an egg frying in a primitive solar oven was not ideal, but Prometheus would only take one, maybe a star and a half off for all that. Accommodations were cozy and the view was excellent, but the bed was rock hard. He mentally signed his fake review “Anne Gree Mann.”
Zeus was alone with Prometheus. Here, Prometheus thought, to give the orientation to the next, last, and what would be the longest of his uncle’s occupations.
“You could have been great.” Zeus sneered. “Could have had anything. I would have even given you a seat in Olympus and a voice in my counsel, but you squandered it all.”
Prometheus shrugged. “What on earth would I want with a seat on that council for?”
Zeus stiffened at the implied insult and roughly thrust Prometheus’ left hand into the northeasternmost shackle. Prometheus had thought for a moment, just a moment, about fighting. One on one he might be able to take Zeus if—and that was a very big if—he got lucky in a thing or three. But he had quickly discarded the idea. Aside from having to live as a fugitive, he would only endanger his children by making them into bargaining tokens for what would, at that point, be livid gods. That would negate the whole point of his coming here in the first place. It had been a ill advised thought—just the product of a long, painful night.
After he had confessed he had been chained in the middle of the Olympic megaron’s throne room, then the harpies had been summoned to torment him. All night he had endured mocking and scourging so that now, here on this mountain, he found himself groggy from lack of sleep and sore from…everything.
“Uncle!” Zeus’ sharp voice broke him out of his reverie.
“I’m…sorry.” his voice was raw, ragged even, but he looked his nephew in the eye.
“Sorry! Sorry!” Zeus’ voice grew in furry till it sounded as though every mountain storm was contained therein. When he spoke again it was with the crack of lightning and the furry of the sea. “You no longer get to be sorry! I am the king of the gods by your own choice and you betrayed me! You betrayed ME!” He grabbed Prometheus’ free hand and roughly slammed it against the rock to be chained.
And just like that Prometheus saw the truth. He saw a child left alone on an island. He saw minutes, hours, years pass as the child was neglected by his mother. He saw that child meeting with an old stranger who told him he would be great, king of all the heavens and the earth. He saw the boy steel himself to do what nobody else dared—to confront his own father, save his siblings, make his mother proud. He saw that boy succeed. He saw that boy become king of the gods. He saw the boy for the first time in his life thinking that he would be accepted, that he would find connection. He saw that boy’s mother making selfish demand after selfish demand and saw his disappointment as he realized that his mother’s only care was for herself, that she only ever cared about him just so long as she could grab at power. He saw the boy trying desperately to connect with siblings who grew to maturity in their father’s digestive tract. He saw him giving them power only to find that they had all been damaged together, and none of them could trust enough to heal. He saw the boy clinging desperately on to one last hope for real companionship. The old man that had visited him on the island, that had believed in him, that had given him the potion. When the old man had visited him, he had felt a connection with another being for the first time in his life. Surely he would be able to relieve this terrible burden of loneliness. He saw the boy searching the world for the old man, he saw him putting all his hope in that one fragile porcelain vase. Then he saw himself, the mighty Prometheus, once more donning his disguise to grossly disobey the king of heaven, to steal from him, openly defy him, flaunt his bond with a creature of mortality over that with the shimmering youth. He saw the boy hearing the story from Hephaestus who had gotten everything from the cyclopes. He saw the boy putting all the pieces together in his head, realizing who the stranger was, realizing that like everyone else in his life Prometheus was working only for his own selfish ends. He saw the hurt, the betrayal, the hardening, the judgment. As the vision faded, Prometheus saw the blustering, angry god before him for what he was, a damaged, neglected child.
He felt sick at the part he had played in making Zeus that way.
He looked into the swirling cerulean universe that was Zeus’ eye.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, this time with all the emotion of understanding.
Zeus lowered his eyes. Prometheus thought he was about to speak, but he didn’t. Instead, he bent to shackle Prometheus’ feet to the bottom of the stone. Then he turned his back. Prometheus was left in a mostly standing but slightly supine position, looking out to sea if he craned his neck down, and a third of the way above the far horizon if he looked straight before him. He inhaled deeply, feeling the salt breeze wash through his emotions like a good brine for pasta. Off in the distance, high in the air he could see the magnificent shapes of two eagles circling between him and the roof of the world.
“So this is to be my punishment?” It was more of a statement than an actual question.
Prometheus was surprised, therefore, when Zeus said: “No. Not entirely.” without turning around.
Not entirely. That seemed ominous.
“The council of Olympus met this morning to decide your fate.” Zeus continued, still facing away from Prometheus.
“I’m honored,” Prometheus said flatly. “But I really think you should have spent the time discussing public infrastructure. The architecture fine but the sewagery on this planet is a nightmare.”
The joke fell flat on unhearing, or, at least, unheading ears as Zeus continued without acknowledgment.
“Mere imprisonment, it seems. Is too good for treason.” His voice was quiet, concentrated, with just a hint of a tremble in it.
“Treason?” Prometheus couldn’t help feeling that the classification was unfair.
Zeus raised one hand, knuckles toward Prometheus, to point at the eagles circling in the sky without looking.
“Every day.” He continued on as though Prometheus hadn’t spoken. “one of those eagles will come to eat your liver. Being an immortal Titan, every night, your liver will regrow.”
Prometheus swallowed. That made for a much less pleasant imprisonment. Even so, he couldn’t resist a final joke. “Whatever did the poor eagle do to deserve such a fate? Still I guess it will be nice to have a ready meal, de-livered to his doorstep like this.”
Zeus’ head bowed and Prometheus finally realized the reason he was so studiously facing away from his victim: he was ashamed. Zeus had called the council together to decide his punishment, the other gods, in their creators’ pride, had wanted to protect Pandora and so had made the punishment so severe for Prometheus that none would need be left over for their creation. That was all speculation on Prometheus’ part, but comforting speculation nonetheless. Here, now, with the breeze on his face and the eagle’s beak still miles up in the sky rather than buried deep in his gut, he was willing to take this punishment if it meant safety and peace for his children. If this was all that was left that he could do for them, then this he would do.
“So be it.” He said, serious once more. “And Uncle,” he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, “best of luck, finding what your looking for. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”
Prometheus opened his eyes in time to see Zeus turn just enough to glace sidelong at him for the briefest instant and then hurry away. In that moment, Prometheus could have sworn he saw a tear carving its wandering way down Zeus’ cheek.
Then, the eagles descended.