Prometheus stared bleakly into the night feeling only a sense of dread. He’d long since lost his emotional attachment to anything in this hard world. He’d lost count of how long he’d been chained to the peak of the Caucasus Mountains. Generations, come and gone. Freedom, a distant memory.
His days were a living nightmare, the black of night his only reprieve. He’d known Zeus should not be crossed, but hadn’t realised the depth of his anger, that Zeus would have him bound to this rock for an eternity of agonising torture. But he should have.
That didn’t matter anymore either. What mattered was that mankind had thrived. He’d seen it from his mountain peak and could cope with his torture in the knowledge that man had learnt well how to use the fire he had stolen for them. They’d manipulated it to their advantage and only gained in strength and ability.
He spotted Eosphoros, the Dawn Star, in the distant sky and knew that his mother, Eos, would soon rise from the sea in her chariot. Her horses would shake the water from their wings before soaring into the sky, from where Eos would dispense the morning dew.
His stomach clenched in dread as the sky on the eastern horizon lightened. He heard the cry of the approaching eagle and the beat of his great wings echoed around the mountains in the receding night. Ethon, the mighty Caucasian Eagle would, once more, land before him, tear at his flesh and eat his liver before his eyes. He readied himself to close down his mind, block out the pain. He would weep no more.
Suddenly, he became aware of a new sound. A twang, followed by a whoosh of air in front of his face, repeated again and again. He opened his eyes to see a volley of arrows pass before him and, with a scream, Ethon fell from the sky, never to rise again.
This was a morning for strange sensations, this one a gentle hand upon his shoulder. “Come Prometheus,” said Heracles, “It’s time that you came home.”