“Father, why is the sky blue and the grass green and the rocks gray and white and brown and sometimes red?”

Prometheus considered telling the five-year-old the truth, how when the universe came into being the earth-mother, Gaea, had seen the sky-father in his starry fineness and had adorned herself with all colors of rocks and plants to attract his attention; and how, on the day that he saw her he cast off his starry cloak to reveal a brilliant blue tunic, so bright that it shone its light on her, allowing him to better see her beauty.

However, Prometheus was by no means certain that he wanted the boy to be thinking of such things as attraction yet. Besides, without having ever seen a female of his own species, he didn’t know whether the boy would understand some of the elements that particular truth.

“Well, the color of the sky,” Prometheus lied, “is a function of light. When light hits the…um…stratosphere there is a layer of…ozone which scatters the…shorter wavelengths of light…and only allows blue light to come through.” It was an unwieldy explanation, and so ludicrously full of contradictions that even a child must surely see the illogic. But after looking very serious for a few moments, the boy nodded his head in a big way and said, “Oh!” as though he just gained great understanding after a mental pilgrimage to the heavens.

“And what about the grass and the rocks?” He asked. “Are those allzone, too?”

Prometheus thought for a moment before saying, “The grass is green because it was yellow but it soaks up all the blue light from the sky and turns green.”

The boys’ eyes opened as wide as his young face would allow, “Is that why grass is yellow when it’s in the dark? Like when it was under the rock that fell on the grass next to the pond by the tree in the clearing over the hill?”

Prometheus thought about this for a moment, struggling to parse the onslaught of prepositions but pleased to have his lies verified by observable truth. “Yes.” He tousled the boy’s hair. Despite the fact that the whole explanation was obvious foolishness, Epimethius showed enormous intellect and wit in his exploration of the natural world which made Prometheus proud.

“The rocks,” he continued, “are gray and white because by the time the plants were all done growing there was no more color left for them.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

The boy considered this with a quizzical expression before saying, “but what about the rocks that are red?”

Prometheus chuckled, he was nearly caught there. Nearly. “Have you ever seen very many red plants?”

Epimethius understood his meaning right away and nodded his head very slowly with his lips pursed as though he were one of the wise of the world in the act of considering a deep philosophy. Of course, upon consideration, Prometheus was almost certain that Epimethius was one of the wise of the world. Already the young boy showed not only more wisdom of thought than the Titans, but also more compassion than the mother Gaea herself. The boy was no longer an experiment; Prometheus was confident in naming him a success.

“Father,” Epimethius was again looking at him with wide, earnest eyes. “When will I get to meet other boys like me?”

Prometheus pursed his lips as he felt the familiar jolt of discomfort surge through his immortal frame. “Soon.” He said, averting his eyes so the boy wouldn’t see the uncertainty there.

He had toyed with the idea of creating a companion for the boy. He knew, after all, that such would be necessary if Epimethius was ever to be the progenitor of his race…but he was afraid.

“What of your studies? Do you learn well from Amalthea?” Prometheus attempted an attitude of of smooth indifference so that the boy wouldn’t realize how desperately he was trying to change the subject.

The boy scuffed his foot on the ground. “I can write my name.” He said it with a reticent air of finality.

“I see.” Prometheus hid a smile. “Would you show me?”

For the next hour the little boy, made from mud, showed the immortal god born from the very joining of Earth and Sky all his meager educational accomplishments. As he did, Prometheus felt a powerful stirring within himself.

“I have not, since I was born—” Prometheus broke off, unwilling to express the sentiment which he felt.

“Father?” The boy thankfully didn’t seem concerned with the half statement, returning instead to his favorite pastime of question asking.

“Yes, my son?”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“Yes, my son.”

“Where are they?”

“They live in a mountain, a very tall mountain.”

“Why don’t you live there?”

“Because I live here.”

“Oh…” The boy paused, considering, Prometheus supposed, what the logical followup question would be. “Will I get to meet them?”

Prometheus frowned. “Perhaps.”

“When?”

“Not now.” He knew he couldn’t be evasive on the matter forever. It was a sorry life for a young child to live alone.

“Do you not want me to meet them?”

“No, my child, quite the opposite, in fact.” It was the best kind of lie, because it relied on personal interpretation. Epimethius would think he meant ‘I do want you to meet them.’ when what he really meant was ‘I don’t want them to meet you.’ It passed without impression.

“Okay.” The innocent trust on his son’s face wrenched his heart strings.

Prometheus choked back a sob and turned away.