In the last days of the Time of Nyx, Prometheus—under another name—had taught the Titan forebears, the uriași, the Art of Fire. In his desperation to break the hold of the Elder Goddess of Night, he had given a gift to some few who little understood what he offered. It had, in soul-crushing fashion, consumed too many of those to whom he had given it, the Fire spirits they had borne in their breasts claiming them.
They had become living infernos, unleashing their conflagrations upon the Mortal Realm, caring naught for friend or foe. Even now, in the recesses of Prometheus’s own soul, the spirit growled at him to burn. Burn it all. But his disciples had, after all, broken the hold of Nyx. Night had ended, even if the price had proved dear.
And now, with another great war drawing nigh, he found himself forced to repeat his teachings. In time, he would pass the Art of Fire on to Mankind, but for now, his first student was the Titan Hestia, daughter of Kreios and Eurybia, who cared for Man as he himself did.
In a cave south of Korinth, above the rampaging waves of the Aegean, the two of them stared into the flickering remnants of a rectangular fire pit that had dwindled to crackling embers. Crimson splotches bled through the bandages wrapt around Hestia’s feet. Those had been the worst of her burns, though in passing through the flames, fire had licked her shins as well, and those too remained rubescent and peeling.
While no doubt in pain, she hid it well. The slight tremble in her fingers as she reached for the embers, that was probably more trepidation at further injuries than pain at her current wounds. Everyone feared a recurrence of agonies once suffered, yet when she mastered this, naught would ever singe her again.
But there were always those first, terrible burns.
No pyromancers could rise without walking through fire.
Such was the way of it.
Hestia’s fingertips brushed over a tongue of flame and she started. When she withdrew her hand, sprouts of fire lingered upon the back of it, flowing over her fingers, swaying as if to unheard music. A gasp escaped the Titan. Despite her centuries of life, childlike elation lit her face as she looked at him, and Prometheus couldn’t stop the smile from rising in him as well. Unabashed joy was, after all, catching, not least for its precious rarity these days.
Hestia huffed, still shifting her arm before her face. “I can hardly believe this real.” Fire spilled down over the crook of her elbow, only to swirl back toward her wrist as she shifted her arm once more.
“After all you endured, I should hope it would prove so.” But he wasn’t really looking at her.
Within the flames, silhouettes shifted, patterns beginning to shape themselves. The complexities of its rhythm threatened to pull him inward as fire so oft did. “Rest yourself now,” he said, barely aware of the Titan.
His mind fell into the burning maelstrom ahead, and mummery formed up from the shadows about him. Voices broke through his haze slowly, first seeming to drift in through thin walls, then rising until it seemed he eavesdropped on those but a few feet away.
Hekate and Zeus, and Zeus’s brother Hades, naked in the dark of the woods, painted with sorcerous glyphs. This … Prometheus fell deeper into the flame as the scene played out around him.
The World bucked in cringing revulsion as Hekate sang of times she did not understand, invoking nostalgia none who had lived through the woes of Dark Faerie would ever have felt. Her whirling dance bent the cosmos in time with her profane intent, the likes of which Prometheus had never before witnessed. Invisible presences seeped inside Hades, driving the Titan into convulsions. The grisly ruination of flesh and soul unfolding within the flame churned Prometheus’s gut, left him desperate to deny that his daughter could conceive such obscenities.
“I didn’t know this would happen.” Zeus’s inane complaints seeped from the flame into Prometheus’s mind and were rejected by Hekate as much as by Prometheus.
When Hades’s torso imploded, Prometheus shut his eyes with a wince, blocking further display of his accursed Sight, which so oft condemned him to witness things he might rather have not. The temptation always lurked just out of reach, an overwhelming desire to turn aside from the course the Moirai had saddled him with.
Allowing himself a grimace, Prometheus opened his eyes. Of course, he had known for so very long the war would come. Zeus would battle against his father and win, and pitiable Kronos would be cast down into Tartarus for his failings. And this moment would serve as the catalyst, would it not?
Faint snores from the corner of the cave drew his gaze to Hestia, curled up in a ball and, he hoped, at peace.
But peace did not last, and she too would invariably find herself swept up in the coming war. Could he avert it? Could he take any action that might forestall Kronos’s terrible Fate?
But he knew better and had told Pandora as much. They could not risk any action that might unmake their own pasts and thus destroy their child, and besides, his greater plan required a strict adherence to the Fates’ design. He had agreed to become their avatar, had set the whole of history upon its course with a singular aim, and no matter how vile the path, he could not lose sight of the end because of events along the way.
No, Zeus’s profane ritual was inevitable, as would be Kronos’s response. In fact, to truly play his role, Prometheus would need to ensure Kronos learnt of this at the right time.
Repining, cursing his Fate at having to tread such paths, it was a self-indulgence he would not permit himself. Not given all he had already sacrificed and the greater pains ahead. No, the future impended.
And Prometheus must dive back into the pyromantic trance to ensure he knew exactly what steps would uphold the timeline. Such was his role, and no other choice lay before him. History was merciless.
