I have gone by many names. They called me Forethought, once. Then they called me Traitor, Creator, Lightbringer. I call myself Prometheus. Even I do not remember just how ancient I am. I lived before the gods, when we Titans ruled the heavens and the earth.
One day, the gods emerged from the darkness, an instant threat to our power. The Titans waged a great war against the gods, vying for control of the cosmos. Kronos, our king, grew arrogant. He called himself the greatest of the Titans, and often made outrageous demands of the “lesser” Titans. I soon grew tired of my old master. So, I abandoned the Titans and shared their secrets with the gods.
It was not long until Kronos was defeated. As the gods anointed a new king on the mountain, I made a new home on the riverbed. I loved to mold the clay of the riverbed into all kinds of creatures—large and small, majestic and foul—and send them out into the world, myriad expressions of myself.
Zeus, the king of the gods, grew drunk with power. He would make constant demands of his subjects, punish those who defied him, and command others to build monuments depicting him as conqueror of the Titans and master of the cosmos. Resentful of Zeus’ tyranny, I began work on my greatest creation.
From the clay of the riverbank, I molded my new creation in the image of the fallen Titans. Although they were small and mortal, I knew they would multiply and build great things. Made in my image, they would be cunning, curious, and filled with the will to create. I breathed my spirit into my creation, and I called it humanity—a rival to the gods.
Soon, my creations multiplied and caught the attention of Zeus. As I sat at the riverbank, teaching my creations how to care for themselves, a messenger from Zeus visited us. He demanded tribute from humanity. And, afraid of what they might accomplish, he forbade me from giving my creation the gift of fire.
I did my best for my creations as I planned my next move. We made clothes and blankets from leaves and animal skins. They burrowed in the ground for warmth. They made what simple huts they could without fire and the tools it would allow them to create. It was a cold, primitive existence—exactly as Zeus wanted it to be.
One night, I looked around at my creations. I watched them huddle for warmth in their crude clothes, shivering in the cold rain. I looked above our heads at Mount Olympus. Even from down on the riverbank, we could see the smoke from their distant fires mocking us.
I took a tree branch with me and climbed up the mountain. I slipped into the palace of the gods, snuck through the warm halls, and stuck the end of my branch in the mighty hearth. Once the branch captured the flame, I slipped away.
I returned to the river, flame in hand. Humanity cheered and began to build. As humanity began its long journey, I looked up at the mountain. Visions of the cities, innovations, and great civilizations my creation would build flashed before my eyes, and I smiled. I had lit the spark of civilization—a great flame that would burn Olympus and its false master to the ground. If the flame was to consume me as well, I would gladly accept my fate.
Zeus immediately learned of my actions. He sent his servants to apprehend me, and I went willingly with them. They took me east, deep in the mountains. They chained me to a massive rock, far from the homes of men. Then, the torture began. Every day, Zeus’ great eagle comes. He pecks and scratches at me. He feasts on me—devouring my liver. Immortal as I am, my liver grows again every night, and the eagle returns the next day.
Zeus often visits me in my torture. He sits on a rock across from me, watching as the eagle tears into my flesh. I never scream. I never give him the satisfaction. I only lock eyes with the tyrant and defy him with my silence. I accept no masters.
It has been ages since I first bore the flame to my creation. They grow in numbers and strength. I accept an eternity chained to this rock, knowing my creation needs me no more. They can face their fate without me.
Sometimes, on a cold night, one of my creations makes their way through the mountains and whispers to me through the crevices. They thank me for my sacrifice, and they light a flame for me. As the fire warms my skin, I remember molding my creation all those ages ago. I think of them, and of all they have done. I think of all that lies ahead of them. I feel a moment’s warmth from the fire, and I regret nothing.
About the Author:
Louis Richey lives in Fort Wayne, Indiana, where he is graduating from the University of Saint Francis with a BA in interdisciplinary studies.
