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With a phantom pain in his right side, Prometheus approaches the hearth of Hestia. The power to release his creations from their static existence as simple clay-formed beings blazes before him. Zeus and the rest of the Olympians would be content to hoard it until the stars went dark, willfully ignorant to the necessity and inevitability of change. The world would stagnate and fester if left solely in their hands.
The fire is undefended, the Olympians in all their arrogance not thinking to guard it. It is no mere flicker of flame, more akin to a wild beast raging at its confinement. In the black of night the flames burn as bright as the sun, scorching heat rolling off them. Far removed from any sense of fear, Prometheus reaches his right hand out and flames leap toward him. His hand begins to blacken, flesh writhing under his skin. The pain is excruciating, white-hot and electric, but it pales in comparison to the suffering Prometheus knows he will face for this so-called theft. His flesh fuelling the fire, he clenches his hand into a fist and exits, heading back down Mount Olympus.
There is only one possible outcome Prometheus has foreseen for this defiance: it concludes with knowledge and arts spreading like wildfire amongst mortals and his ichor staining a peak in the Caucasus mountains. The fire he carries dances in hues of orange and blue on his hand, now numb to the pain. All it takes is one spark to enable his creations to progress beyond their current primitive forms. Prometheus had made them in the image of Titans and gods, yet they were forced to be inferior, their potential to achieve greatness in their own way halted in its infancy. Pale intimations of divinity, they would forever exist in the shadows of the deathless. The gods often sneer at them, prideful of their inherent, unearned superiority and they are determined to maintain the disparity.
Prometheus had once sided with the Olympians in the Titanomachy, foreseeing that if he did not, he would have been imprisoned alongside two of his brothers in Tartarus after the Titans’ inescapable defeat. There would be no one to liberate fire from Olympus for mortals, least of all his other scatter-minded brother, Epimetheus. He and Prometheus had been tasked by Zeus with the creation of animals and mortals respectively, for what was a king without subjects to rule over? Gifted with hindsight rather than foresight, Epimetheus had given all allotted gifts to animals first, equipping them with claws, fur, wings, and keen senses. Nothing was left for Prometheus’ mortals, poor simple creatures shivering in the dark with few natural defences.
Zeus would not be content to punish just Prometheus for defying his will. He has foreseen that the first mortal woman will be sculpted from earth by the skillful hands of Hephaestus and given blessings from each of the Olympians. She receives beauty and glittering jewelry from Aphrodite, is draped in a finely woven dress by Athena, and given curiosity by Zeus. Named after the many gifts she bears, Pandora is sent to Epimetheus as a bride holding a sealed jar. Before embarking on this task, Prometheus had explicitly warned him not to accept any gift from the Olympians. It will make little difference however; he has foreseen that the fool did not listen and his sister-in-law, deceived by the gods, opens the jar and releases all evils that ail mortalkind. Her shade, wracked with guilt, will drink deeply from the Lethe to wash away her memories.
The gift of foresight often weighs heavy like a curse— to see the suffering of mortals and be able to do little to alleviate it. Bearing responsibility for their creation and subsequently their wellbeing, the least Prometheus could do is ensure they are prepared and equipped with wits and reason for what is yet to come. Each attempt at remedying their hardships is met with Zeus’ retribution, but he could not be deterred.
Running quickly but mindful not to extinguish the fire, Prometheus is almost at a mortal settlement now. It matters little where the fire starts; he has foreseen no way to stop its spread once it has begun to burn. Volatile by nature; one spark will begin a new era for mortalkind. It is close to dawn now; most mortals are either cold and hungry or fast asleep. He gathers kindling and arranges it in the centre of the settlement. His hand steadier than it has ever been, he kneels down and transfers the flame to the pyre.
A mortal man has been watching from the shadows since Prometheus arrived. He remembers shaping this one from clay and imbuing vitality into him. Prometheus’ hand had slipped while carving his face, leaving the mortal with a slightly crooked nose. He appears young, though his mortal flesh is slowly dying all around him. He is captivated by the fire, the most fascinating and inspiring thing he has ever seen. The dull sheen in his eyes burns away, revealing ingenuity and intellect. Mortals are capable of so much more, only held back by those who would hold the world in stasis.
As the fire roars, blazing a path to progress and enlightenment, Prometheus makes his exit. If he were Zeus, he would have bestowed the gift in the light of day and demanded worship and reverence. Prometheus had created mortals, thus dooming them to short, painful lives. It is only just that he shoulder responsibility for their suffering and equip them with the capability to bear it as best they can.
As Eos begins her journey in her chariot, dispelling darkness and painting the sky with her rosy fingers, an eagle lets out a shrill, piercing cry.
***
In a dark pit of the Underworld, Prometheus awaits his sentencing. There are no prisons upon Olympus, lest they mar the fragile image of perfection. Prometheus had freely confessed to what he had done, knowing that Zeus would be swift in finding him regardless. He has allowed his right hand to remain blackened from the fire as he saw no need to cleanse the evidence of his supposed crime. Adamantine chains forged by Hephaestus bind him, each arm secured to the ground so closely that he is forced on his knees. Needless though, as violence did not come easily to Prometheus.
Hades had seemed like he could not care less about the whole affair, grumbling something under his breath about it being a waste of time he could have otherwise spent on dealing with parchmentwork. Once the mortal population begins to increase in full force, his domain will grow and so too will his work ruling over the Underworld.
Rumbles of furious thunder reach all the way down to the Underworld, each peal shattering the silence. It is a performative display, as Zeus knows it is futile to try containing the spread of fire, of transformative knowledge, once it has been released. His pride, blinding him to the necessity of change, leads him to believe that the only remaining choice is to enact vengeance.
Zeus had not regarded Prometheus well since the decision at Mecone. The matter at hand was deciding which animal parts mortals would be required to sacrifice to the gods. Zeus had the final say; his choice would thus determine which parts the deathless would receive. Prometheus slew an ox and made two piles: one was a pile of bones wrapped in fat, the other tender meat concealed by entrails. Zeus chose the former, fooled by his own judgement. It was a necessary deception to ensure that mortals need only yield inedible parts of a sacrificed animal. The deathless eat only for pleasure, yet Zeus had sought to deny mortals their sustenance. Starving mortals make greater offerings and loud, desperate prayers.
A flash of lightning strikes the ground before Prometheus. Zeus emerges from the wake of the strike, arms crossed over his puffed chest. Static electricity suddenly fills the air, making Prometheus’ hairs stand on end. Zeus is alone, evidently not here to make a grand proclamation to assert his status as newfound king of the Olympians. Since gaining dominion of Olympus, he has altered his appearance to reflect his authority over the heavens. His hair and beard now hang in the air around him like airy clouds and a crown woven from thunderbolts rests on his head. Zeus has claimed that the division of realms between he and his brothers had been assigned fairly by random chance, but Prometheus had not been able to foresee any outcome where Zeus was not king of Olympus and the heavens.
Looking down at Prometheus, Zeus regards him with narrowed eyes. “I should have seen this treachery coming, Titan. You, who betrayed your own kind when we triumphed against Chronos.” He spits out the word Titan like it is an insult. Despite being the progeny of Titans, the Olympians had chosen to shed the title and renamed themselves gods.
Prometheus has never betrayed anyone, least of all obstinate Titans and gods whose greatest fear is the world changing and leaving them behind. They never had his loyalty to begin with. He does not hesitate to make necessary deceptions where needed, as his duty has always been to his creations.
“Son of Chronos. I have irrevocably changed the world and so you seek to change mine. Conflict often follows change, a fact that I have never shied away from,” says Prometheus.
Zeus bristles at this, as if he knows somewhere deep down he cannot deny it. “You have forgotten your place. We allowed you to join our winning side and spared you punishment alongside your kin. Yet, you believed yourself to be of suitable judgement to distribute the flame to mortals.” Zeus pauses, turning his head shoulder to shoulder to see if anyone has intruded.
Voice quieter than before, he continues, “I would be willing to… overlook your transgression and adjust your atonement accordingly. That fire was never meant for mortals, but the narrative can be rewritten. You could have taken what was, by right, ours to give and take as we saw fit, with my permission and the glory of bestowing fire upon mortals would be returned to me. My benevolence is not given freely, however.”
Such pride. Prometheus looks up and meets his eyes. There is only one response he has foreseen himself replying with. “I know what you want from my foresight, great Lord Zeus. You, who slew your own father Chronos, who in turn overthrew his father Ouranos. I will not impart any answer to you, except this: your time shall come.”
Unaccustomed to being denied anything, Zeus’ hair and beard darken into storm clouds as his countenance contorts into vicious wrath. The air crackles, static electricity rising. A dull ache wraps around his head, the atmospheric pressure expanding beyond the limits of the cramped pit.
“Your foresight has obviously failed you, that you did not see my judgement coming. I will devise a punishment for you far more cruel than anything Lord Hades could think of, befitting a twice-over traitor such as yourself.” He seethes out each word, cursing Prometheus.
Prometheus does not correct him. Burning hatred surges within him and steals away any further words.
***
Zeus had decreed the details of Prometheus’ punishment with no small amount of pomp and grandeur. He had seemed to be anticipating someone to congratulate him on the creativity of his idea. While the other Titans had been imprisoned in the depths of Tartarus, Prometheus’ torment is to be carried out in the light of day to demonstrate what happens to those who defy the will of Zeus.
Prometheus’ sentencing over with, he is brought to a craggy peak in the Caucasus mountains bound in fetters and then each of his limbs are chained to stone, leaving his abdomen exposed. Reclined against rock, he is at least granted a view of the vast sky and plains that stretch beyond the base of the mountain range.
An eagle soars overhead as Helios’ chariot slowly climbs in the sky. When it reaches its peak, the eagle descends, its talons and beak that Epimetheus had once bestowed upon birds of prey glinting in the sunlight. The eagle is immaculate, its sleek golden-brown feathers gleam like polished bronze armour. Sentience glimmers in its lucid eyes. Touched by Zeus then; the god believes eagles belong to him and bends them to his will.
The eagle lands nearby, its wings sending a gust of cool wind that makes the bare skin on Prometheus’ torso prickle in response. Though he knows what is about to transpire, he closes his eyes as the eagle’s bladelike beak begins to tear into his soft flesh.
While he had foreseen this and met his fate without hesitation, the premonitions lacked the depth and quality of the pain of his liver being ripped out. It is unrelenting agony; he finds himself unable to draw enough breath to cry out, let alone scream. As he suffers in silence, the eagle buries its talons into his abdomen, instinctively holding onto its prey. He distantly registers the sounds of wet, fleshy noises punctuated by cracks as the eagle uses its talons and beak to break apart the ribs protecting his liver.
At last, his liver is exposed and the eagle slashes at the ligaments securing it in place. Grasping and tugging with his beak, the shearing force severs the arteries and veins. Prometheus spares a glance downwards and sees ichor flowing out of the gash like molten gold being poured. Although he is deathless, black spots begin to blot his vision and his head swims.
The eagle has pulled his liver to the edge of the crag and is ripping off small bites to consume. Flecks of ichor blemish its pristine feathers and its beak shines gold under the midday sun. Once the eagle is finished, satiated, he spreads his wings and flies off with a shrill shriek.
Prometheus attempts to bid his ruined flesh to heal, but by Zeus’ will it refuses. His divine strengths, all but his inability to die, have been stripped from him. He tries to shift positions to lie down a little more, but even attempting to lift his leg causes him to erupt in searing pain.
Time seems to slow to a standstill, the sun lingering as if Helios has paused his flight across the sky to watch him. Still Prometheus does not cry out. He would not let anyone see him suffer— not wanting it to be taken as an admission of guilt or regret.
Helios’ chariot finally begins its descent, dipping low on the horizon and the wound begins to mend itself together. Bone, muscle, fascia, and skin find each other and the gaping wound seals shut, his abdomen whole once more. His ichor is replenished and a new liver regenerates under his ribs, ripening to be plucked out of him again tomorrow.
As dusk fades, small mortal settlements light up the plains that lie at the feet of the Caucasus mountains. From Prometheus’ distance, their fires almost look like stars in the night sky. He traces them, forming constellations. The Olympians had been foolish beyond measure to believe that they could have prevented an inevitability such as this. Knowledge spreads, uncontrollable as a wildfire reducing a forest to ash and allowing new growth in its wake.
If Prometheus must suffer everyday to bring about a better tomorrow, so be it. Yet, a deep-rooted spark of indignation, that he must bear these bitter wrongs as payment, begins to catch fire within him.
***
Prometheus cannot rouse the anger in himself to begrudge the eagle, whom he has named Aetos, for merely acting on the will of Zeus. It would be akin to blaming a spear for the lives it has claimed, when the fault lies solely with the wielder.
He does not get used to the pain. Each day gives Prometheus the opportunity to appreciate a new aspect of the punishment for his so-called crime. Some days Aetos does not make the initial incision long enough, and so when he rips his liver out, his flesh tears almost all the way up to his left shoulder. Other days Aetos is indiscriminate with his pecking and punctures the diaphragm, collapsing his lung and leaving him gasping for breath until dusk. Sometimes Aetos does not completely sever the liver, and so when it is pulled out his entrails come out in a gleaming pile as well.
He admires mortals for their many traits that the deathless do not possess. Namely hope, common amongst persevering mortals but foreign to the deathless who will outcomes as they deem fit. On occasion, he contemplates their capacity for death as a release from suffering.
In spite of the circumstances, Aetos is his sole companion and they have bonded under both being prisoners of Zeus. After his liver is torn out, Aetos always disappears, returning precisely at noon of the next day. Aetos trusts Prometheus enough to allow him to view the outside world through his eyes. From his vantage point atop the peak and through Aetos’ eyes, Prometheus watches the mortal settlements develop from primitive nomadic camps to sprawling city-states. Touched by divinity, Aetos is much faster than a regular eagle, even able to fly all the way to Olympus and back within the day.
Mortalkind is progressing quickly, working collaboratively to build cities from marble and stone. They construct ships as well and set sail to found new cities and create trading networks. Artistry thrives, some mortals carve great statues from marble and are resourceful in finding materials to paint them with. Potters sculpt amphorae and vases, which are then carefully painted with fine brushstrokes. Bards practice reciting epic poetry to commit it to memory, poets beseech the Muses to bless them with verses that move audiences to tears.
Prometheus admires the way they care for each other and strive to make better lives for their descendants even with the limitations of their short lives. Each generation passes down what they have learned, so that an ever growing body of cumulative knowledge equips the next generation to advance further and further. Their mortality enables them to truly cooperate and commiserate with one another, something Prometheus has rarely witnessed amongst the deathless.
Their feats of ingenuity and compassion matter little to the Olympians. Prometheus watches with bitterness as the gods inflict their wrath upon mortals, slaughtering them at mere whim. Apollo is displeased by a decrease in offerings after a drought, thus he sends waves of plagues that cause mass funeral pyres to arise in each affected city. When Poiseidon is angered, he sends earthquakes that tear cities down, crushing mortals within. Ares stokes conflicts and nurtures wars for no reason other than admiration of his own craft. The mortals use their cleverness to create temples and art to last millennia, all in the name of appeasing and earning favour from gods who toy with them and coerce them into worship and routine sacrifices to survive.
A new, shining city is founded on the coast of the wine-dark sea. As the city is nameless, Athena and Poseidon vie to be its patron god and namesake. A mortal is appointed as judge of a contest: whichever god provides the best gift to the city will receive its eternal worship and offerings. Poseidon, oblivious to mortal needs, strikes the ground with his trident and a saltwater spring bursts forth. Athena, wisdom eddying in her grey eyes, plants an olive tree. The olives can be crushed into rich oil, the tree’s shade used to keep cool in the summer, and its wood used to keep warm in winter. The mortal chooses the olive tree, and thus the city is named in her honour.
When there has been an era of peace and the population is thriving, a great war erupts to the southwest of the Caucasus mountains as though the Olympians cannot tolerate seeing mortals prospering and living as they do. Proud, just mortal kings are forced to gather their men and send them to die far from their homelands. Families are split apart, never to be whole again. Even the men who would return did not come back the same as they once were, memories of battle haunting them. Ten grueling years of war, of bloodshed, from Aphrodite’s meddling; it pains Prometheus to see how many funeral pyres are alit outside the walled city. The war concludes when the city is sacked and a young swift-footed warrior is slain, the work of Ares ensuring that he never had a chance to rival the deathless.
After the war, a wily mortal king traverses the seas to return home to his rocky island. Seeking xenia, he intrudes into a cyclops’ cave. The cyclops does not abide by laws of xenia and attacks him. In retaliation the king grievously maims him, stealing his sight. The cyclops, believing he is a son of Poseidon, pleads to him for vengeance. Poseidon thinks it would be an amusing ruse and so he indulges him. The king who had delivered the insult is favoured by Athena for his tenacity and cunning, yet this is not enough; he is impeded from returning home for another decade. A blink of the eye for the deathless but an unspeakably long time for short-lived mortals.
His creations have persevered through much, but the worst is an unyielding winter that causes famines to spread across the land. Something must have deeply offended Demeter, that she would withhold spring for this long. Mortals perish in droves, the last words on their starved lips often pleas to Demeter for nourishment. Through Aetos’ eyes Prometheus sees her travelling through a mortal city holding a green ribbon, invisible to them. Searching for someone, perhaps.
She must find who she is looking for, as the winter does eventually come to an end and verdure flourishes once again. Not before having needlessly extinguished a countless number of mortal lives though. Their lifespans are already fleeting, to steal mere decades from them is unwarranted. Vast cities are now empty of mortals; the only remnants of their existence are the stone buildings they leave behind.
A premonition comes to Prometheus, of a world where the gods have stepped away from mortal affairs and mortalkind suffers no longer at their capricious hands. A saffron-clad chthonic witch, whose birth is imminent, will be pivotal in seeing that world brought forth. The Agent of Change will be changed herself and bring conflict to the immortals who would rather live in a stagnant world.
Another premonition reveals itself: just beyond the gates to the Underworld Satyr Cultists, fuelled by loathing for Hades, work to reassemble the strewn pieces of their lord Chronos with ritualistic blood sacrifices. It works, and Chronos sews himself back together from the depths of Tartarus, golden scars proudly on display. He first launches an attack on the House of Hades, then turns his focus to Mount Olympus. However, Chronos is too late to stop the Titaness Hecate from whisking away the infant daughter of Hades to safety in shadow.
He need but endure for a while longer. If there is something Prometheus has learned whilst bound here, isolated from the world, it is that he cannot be broken. His wounds will heal. They always do.
***
Something has changed. Even stranded upon a mountain peak, he can feel it in the air. The flow of time seems to warp and shift, as if its controller is reveling in his regained power. Chronos has freed himself and begun his war upon the gods that once slew him. The very earth shudders at the upheaval.
Not even the Titan of Time’s resurrection deters Aetos from his obligation. As the sun reaches its peak, Aetos appears and swoops down. Their usual routine continues for some time, until one day at dawn Prometheus foresees his deliverance is nigh approaching.
Even after aeons of torture and countless livers, the visercal pain still steals his breath away as he is shorn apart in practiced, familiar slices. Aetos remains after, perched on a stone wiping his beak clean of ichor and bits of liver.
Prometheus’ deliverance comes to him in the form of a man who blurs the believed rigid line between mortal and divine. The man is large by mortal standards, rivalling Prometheus’ height, and is cloaked in the pelt of a great lion. Multiple weapons adorn him, though Prometheus doubts he requires a weapon to deal death. His golden eyes are cold, ringed with a bloodlust to match Ares. He bears a striking resemblance to his father. Remorse enshrouds him, though Prometheus cannot see into his past. Prometheus is unfamiliar with regret, but Heracles bears its heavy burden.
“Hail, Flame Thief. I know who you are and it matters not who I am. Let us not waste time when there is much work to be done. Your imprisonment has come to an end.” Heracles slings a bow off his back and draws it, aiming at Aetos.
“No!” cries Prometheus. “The eagle is blameless, heeding the will of the gods just as you are with your endless labours. Though I wonder whose will you are acting under at this moment. My foresight only reveals outcomes to me, not intentions or motivations. Our benevolent Lord Zeus would be content to leave me here until these mountains become dust on the wind.”
Heracles considers this for a moment, then slowly lowers his bow and replies dryly, “Never thought I would feel kinship with a bird. I am here under no one’s will other than my own. The gods are… otherwise occupied with old grudges at this moment and shall not see us here.” Thick clouds loom above them, obscuring Helios’ sight.
Prometheus foresees then, a future fighting with Heracles. The ground quaking with each blow of his club, earth splintering and rendered into dust. Legions of foes torn apart in his wake, their bodies mangled beyond recognition. Engaging in other pleasures of the flesh together. Visions of terse exchanges between him and the Agent of Change.
With four mighty swings of his club, Heracles splits each of Prometheus’ chains apart. His freedom finally commencing, Prometheus makes to stand up only to find his limbs disagreeable and familiar waves of pain searing through him. Heracles offers a hand, pulling Prometheus to his feet and he stands for the first time in an aeon, reborn. Like a nascent mortal toddling on their legs, he slowly makes his way to the edge of the crag, his right side crying out tears of ichor and dripping a trail of gold.
Wordlessly, Heracles passes him a long strip of white linen. Prometheus binds it around his waist, staunching the wound and bidding it to heal again. No longer imprisoned, it responds and his flesh knits itself together. He turns to thank Heracles, but the lionlike man has already vanished.
Aetos remains, a curious glint in his eyes. To force Aetos to remain at his side would make Prometheus no better than Zeus. After all this time, Aetos deserves his freedom too. Prometheus addresses him, “My sole companion and deliverer of Olympian justice through no choice of your own, I give you your freedom from this curse Zeus has put on you. May the wind ever be at your back and your journeys take you far away from these mountains.”
In response, Aetos spreads his wings and takes flight into the vast sky.
Theoretically, Prometheus is able to pursue any number of paths, now unbound and answering to no one. He could disappear, disguise himself with a mortal’s body and live unnoticed amongst his creations. But there was only one foreseeable path ahead, a path that included him setting Olympus aflame and shaping the lost daughter of Hades into the Agent of Change to end the age of gods and herald a new Golden Age for mortals.
Violence is the native tongue of the Olympians and his suffering has given him the gift of fluency. Forgiveness, mercy, and reconciliation are all foreign concepts to them. For far too long, they have viewed mortals as their playthings and recipients of wrath. Lofty pride clouds their judgement, unfit to rule over anyone but themselves. Most of all, they are undeserving of the worship they coerce out of hardworking mortals, who must merely hope for their blessings in return.
Time has now permitted redistribution of suffering. Prometheus is finally at liberty to act on the anger burning through his veins. A certain degree of violence will be necessary to enact change. Aeons of this torment have taken something from Prometheus; his divine strength is slowly trickling back to him, but it will not be what it once was. At some point, the wound on his torso had stopped fully healing, leaving behind a large scar each time. He does not mind—it will serve as a reminder of Olympus’ judgement to all.
Aetos returns, grasping something in his talons: strips of leather bindings. Prometheus wraps them over his left forearm and extends his arm out. Aetos lands on it, his talons never to pierce his flesh again.
Together, then. They will burn Olympus down and reduce the Palace of Zeus to ashes.
***
Prometheus does not seek Chronos’ forgiveness, nor does Chronos offer it. He does not need to know the true extent of Prometheus’ loyalty, their goals of bringing Olympus to ruin align and that is enough for now. Necessary deceptions would cover the rest. When Chronos inquires about what he has foreseen, Prometheus tells him that he must withhold details so as to not alter the final outcome, which angers Chronos, though his arrogance prevents him from envisioning a future where he is defeated.
As it is early in the war, many outcomes are still viable. The sheer number of them almost overwhelms Prometheus and he must be mindful to not lose sight of his Golden Age. It is similar to attempting to foresee too far into the future—infinite variables resulting in all too many outcomes to be of use. He would not let himself be led astray by outcomes that shall not come to pass. The worst potential outcome that he has seen, one that he had not dared given thought to, is the Olympians triumphing and their subsequent punishment of mortals who supported Chronos.
Mortals have not forgotten Prometheus. Poets extol his bravery, writing verses singing of his daring defiance and subsequent imprisonment. It feels strange to hear their praise, as he has never sought the worship of mortals. Regardless of the final outcome of this strife, he has foreseen that even well into the future mortals will continue to compose poems about him and the other deathless.
Some mortals rally behind Chronos, fed up with the Olympians’ rule. Others, manipulated into believing they are benevolent rulers, claim that they just need to sacrifice more offerings and everything will be back to the way it once was. As more and more mortals are swayed to Chronos’ side, offerings wane, angering the Olympians further. Mortals in favour of Chronos cite that circumstances were better during the Golden Age in which he ruled. As none of them were alive then, they are unaware that it was a time of brittle peace because Chronos ruled ruthlessly, consuming any insolence before it could develop into dissent.
In every outcome where Chronos wins, Prometheus has foreseen that his Golden Age is an empty promise as he will utterly disregard mortals’ wellbeing in pursuit of attaining his vengeance on the defeated Olympians. Already he has flung open the gates to the Underworld, releasing wrathful and lost shades upon the surface.
The Agent of Change is hidden somewhere not of this realm. Wherever Hecate has concealed her has strong enough wards to prevent his foresight from seeing into there. Based on his premonitions of her lethality, Hecate must be moulding her into a deadly weapon. The promise of vengeance for her stolen family drives her. She has seen nothing of the world, yet fights to defend it and return power to the Olympians. Kept sheltered, her worldview is formed based on what she is taught. Any challenge to it would be taken as disloyalty to her relatives upon Olympus, loyalty to whom she accepts solely based on birthright. Her father had been better in this regard, having cut ties with the Olympians and devoting himself wholly to his realm.
Chronos has delegated besieging Olympus to him, preferring to remain in the Underworld lording on Hades’ throne from below. He revels in optics, taking immense pleasure in redesigning the House of Hades and Tartarus in his own image. Prometheus is given command over legions of forces, including satyrs, harpies, and dracons. They require few commands, bloodlust and desire for brutality driving them to attack until their dying breath.
Upon seeing Chronos’ armies approach Olympus, Poseidon impulsively sunders the land at the base of their mountain and sends colossal waves to flood it, drowning the mortal towns that were shorn apart. A bane to Olympus, as the dead become vengeful shades loyal to Chronos and their new forces are armed with ships to accelerate their journey to the mountain.
Prometheus’ foresight lends itself well to battle strategy. Where Athena must meticulously consider all factors, odds, and past experience, he need only foresee outcomes where his forces lose and replan until all he can see is victory. Aetos aids him as well, using his keen vision to scout around the mountain and surrounding areas. Most Olympians, save Athena, remain in the Palace of Zeus at the summit to allegedly focus on strategy. He avoids any direct confrontation with Athena, foreseeing only his defeat at her spear if he were to attempt fighting her.
Unsurprisingly, Dionysus has no interest in fighting and instead has buried himself in a den of hedonism and self-gratification somewhere on the mountain. The drunkard believes that all of their strife can simply be washed away with nectar and ambrosia. Prometheus steers his forces clear of Dionysus, not wanting to engage with the heady miasma of depravity.
Chronos’ and the Olympians’ armies are evenly matched. Whatever forces that are disposed of by Hephaestus’ automatons are easily replaced, and the automatons themselves are repaired quickly. The scales begin to tip in Chronos’ favour when he awakens Typhon from under Mount Aetna. Under no delusion of controlling Typhon, Chronos merely directs him to Olympus where he releases his savage spawn and causes an unyielding storm upon the summit. Monstrosity incarnate, he has no motivation other than pure destruction. It takes nearly all of the Olympians’ combined might to hold him at bay. With them distracted, the vanguard of Prometheus’ forces begin to take the advantage.
Whispers arise from shades of a saffron-clad witch fighting in the Underworld. The Agent of Change’s mission has begun.
***
Tonight is the night he will meet the Agent of Change. She was close last night, made it through the Rift of Thessaly only to fall to the malfunctioning Talos who cannot distinguish friend from foe. She has been attacked by the automatons too many times to count, yet she still does not seem to realize that she is a disposable tool to the Olympians. Heracles came to this realization long ago and adapted accordingly, living only for the feeling of crushing vast legions of enemies with his club every night. The cost of eternal glory, immortalized through poetry and statues, is his freedom.
Through Aetos’ eyes, he watches her ascend Mount Olympus with Descura in hand. Hera and Demeter have deigned to provide their aid to her tonight. She is ruthlessly efficient and precise; not a single strike misses. Demeter amplifies her magick, freezing foes solid and leaving them defenceless and at her mercy. Automaton parts and harpy feathers trail behind her, marking wakes of destruction. When she is overwhelmed by enemies, her defeat imminent, Athena chooses to descend and fells them all. Her Aegis shines, an ever present reminder of what happens to those who defy Athena’s will.
When she is closer to the summit, the Agent of Change is forced to choose between Hera’s and Apollo’s blessings. It is little wonder Typhon keeps them cowering in the Palace of Zeus—they waste their time and resources on petty quarrels. She hesitates, but chooses Hera, and endures Apollo’s vindictive, sunbright wrath. She owes nothing to her relatives yet still gives everything to them. None amongst them would ever fight for her.
Prometheus awaits the Agent of Change just before the entrance to the summit. Tonight, weakened by Apollo, she will succumb to his flames. The next night, he will fall to her sister blades. She will slash open his scar, believing it retribution for a supposed crime that she was not even alive to witness. She will learn from her defeats as he has learned from his. Each night, she will grow in strength until she can drive both Chronos and Typhon back night after night and vanquish them for good. With them out of the way, the new Golden Age where mortals are at last freed and left alone, can be ushered in and the age of gods will end.
Fierce loyalty currently blinds her to the truths about her relatives upon Olympus. Amongst his flames, Prometheus will enlighten her on her family’s failings and compel her to recognize the harm the deathless have wrought upon mortals. She is stubborn and prideful, but her naïve worldview is still mouldable like unfired clay. If he were to tell her of her role now, she would refuse to believe it and close her mind to him entirely. She is the only immortal fit to aid him in this task; it is far too late for anyone else to undergo the necessary changes.
The Agent of Change arrives, sparks trailing at her feet and blazing fury in her eyes to match Prometheus’ own. A crown of laurels rests on her head, denoting her as a princess of a home she has never known. Immense strength simmers within her, a potent mixture of Olympic might, chthonic power, and Hecate’s witchcraft. She looks at him, and sees only she has been told to see: a condemned traitorous wretch.
Despite Prometheus’ stratagems, the ultimate outcome of this conflict remains uncertain for now. Amidst a myriad of possible futures, he would work hard like his creations until all he can foresee is mortals liberated from gods, free to fend for themselves and strive for a better tomorrow as he knows they are capable of. Blue flames igniting on his right hand and Aetos at his side, Prometheus begins their fight by sharing with the Agent of Change the gift he had once shared with mortalkind aeons ago.