The world was a blur of screaming wind, rushing cloud, and gut-wrenching vertigo. The journey, which on a map might have taken months, was compressed into a single, terrifying, awe-inspiring hour of divine travel.
"We're already—hurgh—here? I'm really gonna—blegh—Okay, next we just need to—HUUUURK—"
Cyd collapsed onto a flat expanse of sun-baked rock, his body convulsing with dry heaves. The flight hadn't been a gentle glide; it had been a ballistic arc across the sky, the white steed's wings beating with the rhythmic, earth-shaking force of a hurricane. He'd clung on for dear life, his fingers numb, his face lashed by freezing air so thin it burned his lungs. Twice, his grip had failed. Twice, he'd felt the sickening lurch of weightlessness, the world spinning away as he plummeted toward the jagged peaks below. Both times, a flash of white had intercepted him, powerful jaws closing gently but immovably on the back of his tunic, hauling him back into the saddle with a disgruntled snort.
Now, on solid ground, his stomach was still somewhere over the Aegean Sea. He lay sprawled, cheek pressed to the warm stone, groaning.
The white steed nudged his head with a velvety muzzle, then gently tapped his temple with a hoof, its expression one of mild concern and profound innocence.
"I'm fine," Cyd managed, waving a limp hand. "Just… profoundly airsick. And traumatized. You're a wonderful, terrifying mode of transportation." He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, taking deep, shuddering breaths of the thin, cold mountain air. After several minutes, the world stopped spinning quite so violently.
He stood, using a nearby rock face for support, and looked around. They were on a high, wind-scoured plateau in the Caucasus range. The air was sharp and clean, scented with stone and distant snow. The silence was absolute, a crushing weight after the roar of the flight.
"So… where is he?" Cyd asked, his voice hoarse. He scanned the desolate landscape of grey rock and sparse, hardy shrubs.
The horse turned its head and looked pointedly at a massive outcropping of stone about a hundred yards away. It was larger than a house, a monolithic slab of granite thrusting from the mountain's spine.
Cyd squinted. Then his breath caught.
He could see him now. A figure, stark against the grey stone, held fast by thick, dark bonds that gleamed dully in the harsh sunlight. Even from this distance, the sense of immense, patient suffering was palpable.
"You… really don't do things by halves, do you?" Cyd muttered, a wry smile touching his pale lips. He'd hoped the steed would drop him in a nearby valley, giving him time to prepare, to plan his approach. Instead, it had delivered him to the doorstep of divinity and torment.
He walked over to the horse and placed a hand on its warm neck. The gratitude he felt was profound, tangled with bone-deep exhaustion. "You got me here. To the exact place I asked. Thank you." He swallowed, the next words harder to say than he'd expected. "You should go back now. Back to Lord Poseidon. Staying with me… it can't be comfortable. You belong in his stables, or racing across the waves, not babysitting a land-locked weakling on a mountain. The rest… I'll figure it out on my own."
The steed blinked its large, intelligent eyes. It didn't move. Instead, it walked around behind Cyd and nudged him firmly between the shoulder blades, pushing him gently but insistently toward the distant rock.
Cyd stumbled forward a step, then dug in his heels. He'd arrived. His goal was in sight. And yet, a cold, primal fear had crystallized in his gut, freezing him in place.
He looked up at the sky. The sun was nearing its zenith, a fierce, white eye in the endless blue.
"It's noon," he whispered, his throat tight. "The eagle. It's time."
The stories were vivid in his mind. The great eagle of Zeus, a manifestation of the god's wrath, descended daily to tear out the Titan's regenerating liver. Was it a mere animal? A divine construct? Or, in a moment of particular cruelty, Zeus's own spirit, taking wing to personally administer the torture? Only a son like Heracles, blessed and burdened by Zeus's own blood, could dare shoot it down and shatter the chains. Cyd was no demigod. He was a fluke, a pale ghost with a pocketful of prayers. If he intruded on this grim, sacred ritual… would Zeus even see him as a person, or as an insect to be casually smeared across the rock?
The risk is too high, the survivalist part of his brain hissed. You have no power, no lineage to shield you. One misstep, one moment of divine annoyance, and you join him on that rock, or become a red stain on the mountainside.
He took a step back, his mind racing for alternatives. Maybe he could descend, find a village, procure a sacrificial calf… make an offering to Zeus from a safe distance first, to announce his presence and peaceful intentions…
"Come closer, child. The eagle of Zeus will not come today."
The voice was not loud, but it carried across the silent plateau with impossible clarity. It was a voice worn smooth by eons, deep with a patience that seemed to encompass the turning of stars. There was no pain in it, no bitterness—only a profound, weary kindness, and a wisdom that felt like cool water in a desert.
Cyd froze. Trust warred with caution. The voice inspired an instinctive, almost cellular sense of trust. This was the voice of the First Friend, the one who had shaped humanity from clay and stolen fire from heaven. But instinct had kept him alive for fifteen years under the Gorgons' gaze. Trust was a luxury.
"Is… is that true?" Cyd called out, his own voice small and shaky against the vastness. He didn't move.
"For millennia, to maximize my agony, the eagle's visits have been as precise as the sun's path," Prometheus replied. His head, which had been tilted toward the horizon, turned slowly. Even from this distance, Cyd could feel the weight of that gaze. It was like being seen by the mountain itself. "It has never been late. Never missed a day. Today…" A faint, almost imperceptible smile seemed to touch the Titan's lips. "Today, I suspect my captor does not wish you to witness the spectacle. The blood. The tearing. It is… unseemly for a guest."
Cyd's face lost the last of its color. His mind, treacherous thing, provided a crisp, horrific image: hooked talons, dark and sharp as obsidian, parting immortal flesh; a vicious beak plunging into a glistening, dark-red cavity. The visceral, graphic violence of it, the divine-sanctioned brutality, hit him like a physical blow. He swayed on his feet, his stomach roiling again.
"You may approach," Prometheus continued, his tone softening further into something almost paternal. "I have not spoken with one of my children in a very long time. You have nothing to fear from me. I could not harm you if I wished. And I do not wish to. For me, all of humanity are my children."
Those words broke the last of Cyd's hesitation. The truth in them was absolute. This being was chained here because of his love for humanity. His suffering was the price of their warmth, their progress, their very survival.
"I know," Cyd said, his voice firmer now. He shook his head, dispelling the last of his cowardice. "The fact that you are here… is proof enough for me."
He walked forward, his steps measured but no longer hesitant. The distance closed. The details of the Titan's imprisonment became agonizingly clear: the thick, adamantine manacles biting into wrists that looked like carved marble, the heavy chains rooted deep into the living rock, the faint, silvery scars that crisscrossed his torso—the ghost of ten thousand daily mutilations. Prometheus's face was noble, lined not with age but with timeless endurance. His eyes, the color of a deep, thoughtful twilight, held Cyd's gaze without judgment.
"My child," Prometheus said, his voice a gentle rumble. He strained against his bonds, a muscle in his arm corded with the effort, his fingers reaching just inches before the chains pulled him up short. The simple, futile gesture of wanting to offer comfort was more heartbreaking than any cry of pain. "What is it you have come so far to ask?"
Cyd looked up at him, the wind whipping his short white hair. He had rehearsed this moment in his head a thousand times during the long, fearful years on the island. Now, faced with the source of all foresight, the question felt both too small and too vast.
"I…" he began, then hesitated. He gathered his courage, the raw, unvarnished truth of his desire. "I want to live an ordinary life. A peaceful one."
He let the words hang in the thin mountain air. They sounded pathetic, laughable even, in this place of epic punishment and cosmic rebellion.
"An… ordinary life?" Prometheus repeated, the words foreign on his tongue. The Titan of Foresight, who had navigated the machinations of Zeus and shaped the destiny of a species, was visibly taken aback. His vast intellect, which could trace the threads of fate and foresee the rise and fall of empires, seemed to stumble over this simple, humble request.
"Yes," Cyd nodded, his gaze steady. "I don't ask for a life without hardship or sorrow. To live without those isn't 'ordinary'—it's a fantasy. I just want to live, normally, in a world that has wars and plagues and monsters. To face troubles that are… human-sized. And then, one day, to die a normal death. Maybe with regrets, maybe with unfulfilled wishes. That's okay. That's part of it."
Prometheus was silent, his twilight eyes searching Cyd's face. "Yours is the first prayer of its kind to reach me," he said at last, a wry, weary smile touching his lips. "Ask me how to become a hero, and I could give you a dozen paths. The steps are clear, the trials mapped. The names of monsters to slay, treasures to seek, kings to impress… these are written in the stars. But this… 'ordinary'…"
"Being ordinary is harder than it looks," Cyd said, a hint of his dry humor returning. He spread his hands. "Everyone's standard is different. One man's peaceful farm is another man's prison. One woman's simple joy is another's profound boredom. There's no single path to 'ordinary.' It's a moving target."
"And you have no desire to aim for the clearer target?" Prometheus asked, genuine curiosity in his tone. "The standards of a hero are written. Glory. Honor. Eternal fame in song. The path, while dangerous, is defined."
Cyd looked down at his own hands, pale and uncalloused. "You see all of humanity as your children, right?"
"I do," Prometheus said, his voice grave.
"Do you enjoy watching your children tear each other apart?"
The Titan flinched as if struck. The serene endurance on his face cracked, revealing a glimpse of an ancient, bottomless grief. He said nothing.
"Heroes," Cyd continued, his voice low but intense, "are born from the wishes of the people. They wield their swords to cleanse blights, to answer prayers. But heroes are people too. They cannot satisfy everyone. More than that… who can ever truly satisfy themselves?" He met Prometheus's pained gaze. "Glory. Love. Wealth. In this world—in any world—these are the currencies of heroes. And the fastest, easiest way to amass that currency? War. Conquest. To elevate themselves, heroes must, by necessity, tread upon the dignity, the homes, the very lives of others. I might… I will look upon their deeds with awe from a distance. I will sing their songs around a fire. But I will never seek to become one of them."
He took a deep breath, the cold air filling his lungs, clarifying his resolve. "Because I want to live an ordinary life. And then I want to die an ordinary death."
Cyd knelt on the hard rock before the bound Titan, not in subservience, but in earnest supplication. He bowed his head.
"Prometheus, Forethinker, Titan of Wisdom… hear my prayer. It is not for strength, or riches, or a place in legend. Guide me. Show me the path, however narrow and hidden, that leads to the ordinary. That is all I ask."The world was a blur of screaming wind, rushing cloud, and gut-wrenching vertigo. The journey, which on a map might have taken months, was compressed into a single, terrifying, awe-inspiring hour of divine travel.
"We're already—hurgh—here? I'm really gonna—blegh—Okay, next we just need to—HUUUURK—"
Cyd collapsed onto a flat expanse of sun-baked rock, his body convulsing with dry heaves. The flight hadn't been a gentle glide; it had been a ballistic arc across the sky, the white steed's wings beating with the rhythmic, earth-shaking force of a hurricane. He'd clung on for dear life, his fingers numb, his face lashed by freezing air so thin it burned his lungs. Twice, his grip had failed. Twice, he'd felt the sickening lurch of weightlessness, the world spinning away as he plummeted toward the jagged peaks below. Both times, a flash of white had intercepted him, powerful jaws closing gently but immovably on the back of his tunic, hauling him back into the saddle with a disgruntled snort.
Now, on solid ground, his stomach was still somewhere over the Aegean Sea. He lay sprawled, cheek pressed to the warm stone, groaning.
The white steed nudged his head with a velvety muzzle, then gently tapped his temple with a hoof, its expression one of mild concern and profound innocence.
"I'm fine," Cyd managed, waving a limp hand. "Just… profoundly airsick. And traumatized. You're a wonderful, terrifying mode of transportation." He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, taking deep, shuddering breaths of the thin, cold mountain air. After several minutes, the world stopped spinning quite so violently.
He stood, using a nearby rock face for support, and looked around. They were on a high, wind-scoured plateau in the Caucasus range. The air was sharp and clean, scented with stone and distant snow. The silence was absolute, a crushing weight after the roar of the flight.
"So… where is he?" Cyd asked, his voice hoarse. He scanned the desolate landscape of grey rock and sparse, hardy shrubs.
The horse turned its head and looked pointedly at a massive outcropping of stone about a hundred yards away. It was larger than a house, a monolithic slab of granite thrusting from the mountain's spine.
Cyd squinted. Then his breath caught.
He could see him now. A figure, stark against the grey stone, held fast by thick, dark bonds that gleamed dully in the harsh sunlight. Even from this distance, the sense of immense, patient suffering was palpable.
"You… really don't do things by halves, do you?" Cyd muttered, a wry smile touching his pale lips. He'd hoped the steed would drop him in a nearby valley, giving him time to prepare, to plan his approach. Instead, it had delivered him to the doorstep of divinity and torment.
He walked over to the horse and placed a hand on its warm neck. The gratitude he felt was profound, tangled with bone-deep exhaustion. "You got me here. To the exact place I asked. Thank you." He swallowed, the next words harder to say than he'd expected. "You should go back now. Back to Lord Poseidon. Staying with me… it can't be comfortable. You belong in his stables, or racing across the waves, not babysitting a land-locked weakling on a mountain. The rest… I'll figure it out on my own."
The steed blinked its large, intelligent eyes. It didn't move. Instead, it walked around behind Cyd and nudged him firmly between the shoulder blades, pushing him gently but insistently toward the distant rock.
Cyd stumbled forward a step, then dug in his heels. He'd arrived. His goal was in sight. And yet, a cold, primal fear had crystallized in his gut, freezing him in place.
He looked up at the sky. The sun was nearing its zenith, a fierce, white eye in the endless blue.
"It's noon," he whispered, his throat tight. "The eagle. It's time."
The stories were vivid in his mind. The great eagle of Zeus, a manifestation of the god's wrath, descended daily to tear out the Titan's regenerating liver. Was it a mere animal? A divine construct? Or, in a moment of particular cruelty, Zeus's own spirit, taking wing to personally administer the torture? Only a son like Heracles, blessed and burdened by Zeus's own blood, could dare shoot it down and shatter the chains. Cyd was no demigod. He was a fluke, a pale ghost with a pocketful of prayers. If he intruded on this grim, sacred ritual… would Zeus even see him as a person, or as an insect to be casually smeared across the rock?
The risk is too high, the survivalist part of his brain hissed. You have no power, no lineage to shield you. One misstep, one moment of divine annoyance, and you join him on that rock, or become a red stain on the mountainside.
He took a step back, his mind racing for alternatives. Maybe he could descend, find a village, procure a sacrificial calf… make an offering to Zeus from a safe distance first, to announce his presence and peaceful intentions…
"Come closer, child. The eagle of Zeus will not come today."
The voice was not loud, but it carried across the silent plateau with impossible clarity. It was a voice worn smooth by eons, deep with a patience that seemed to encompass the turning of stars. There was no pain in it, no bitterness—only a profound, weary kindness, and a wisdom that felt like cool water in a desert.
Cyd froze. Trust warred with caution. The voice inspired an instinctive, almost cellular sense of trust. This was the voice of the First Friend, the one who had shaped humanity from clay and stolen fire from heaven. But instinct had kept him alive for fifteen years under the Gorgons' gaze. Trust was a luxury.
"Is… is that true?" Cyd called out, his own voice small and shaky against the vastness. He didn't move.
"For millennia, to maximize my agony, the eagle's visits have been as precise as the sun's path," Prometheus replied. His head, which had been tilted toward the horizon, turned slowly. Even from this distance, Cyd could feel the weight of that gaze. It was like being seen by the mountain itself. "It has never been late. Never missed a day. Today…" A faint, almost imperceptible smile seemed to touch the Titan's lips. "Today, I suspect my captor does not wish you to witness the spectacle. The blood. The tearing. It is… unseemly for a guest."
Cyd's face lost the last of its color. His mind, treacherous thing, provided a crisp, horrific image: hooked talons, dark and sharp as obsidian, parting immortal flesh; a vicious beak plunging into a glistening, dark-red cavity. The visceral, graphic violence of it, the divine-sanctioned brutality, hit him like a physical blow. He swayed on his feet, his stomach roiling again.
"You may approach," Prometheus continued, his tone softening further into something almost paternal. "I have not spoken with one of my children in a very long time. You have nothing to fear from me. I could not harm you if I wished. And I do not wish to. For me, all of humanity are my children."
Those words broke the last of Cyd's hesitation. The truth in them was absolute. This being was chained here because of his love for humanity. His suffering was the price of their warmth, their progress, their very survival.
"I know," Cyd said, his voice firmer now. He shook his head, dispelling the last of his cowardice. "The fact that you are here… is proof enough for me."
He walked forward, his steps measured but no longer hesitant. The distance closed. The details of the Titan's imprisonment became agonizingly clear: the thick, adamantine manacles biting into wrists that looked like carved marble, the heavy chains rooted deep into the living rock, the faint, silvery scars that crisscrossed his torso—the ghost of ten thousand daily mutilations. Prometheus's face was noble, lined not with age but with timeless endurance. His eyes, the color of a deep, thoughtful twilight, held Cyd's gaze without judgment.
"My child," Prometheus said, his voice a gentle rumble. He strained against his bonds, a muscle in his arm corded with the effort, his fingers reaching just inches before the chains pulled him up short. The simple, futile gesture of wanting to offer comfort was more heartbreaking than any cry of pain. "What is it you have come so far to ask?"
Cyd looked up at him, the wind whipping his short white hair. He had rehearsed this moment in his head a thousand times during the long, fearful years on the island. Now, faced with the source of all foresight, the question felt both too small and too vast.
"I…" he began, then hesitated. He gathered his courage, the raw, unvarnished truth of his desire. "I want to live an ordinary life. A peaceful one."
He let the words hang in the thin mountain air. They sounded pathetic, laughable even, in this place of epic punishment and cosmic rebellion.
"An… ordinary life?" Prometheus repeated, the words foreign on his tongue. The Titan of Foresight, who had navigated the machinations of Zeus and shaped the destiny of a species, was visibly taken aback. His vast intellect, which could trace the threads of fate and foresee the rise and fall of empires, seemed to stumble over this simple, humble request.
"Yes," Cyd nodded, his gaze steady. "I don't ask for a life without hardship or sorrow. To live without those isn't 'ordinary'—it's a fantasy. I just want to live, normally, in a world that has wars and plagues and monsters. To face troubles that are… human-sized. And then, one day, to die a normal death. Maybe with regrets, maybe with unfulfilled wishes. That's okay. That's part of it."
Prometheus was silent, his twilight eyes searching Cyd's face. "Yours is the first prayer of its kind to reach me," he said at last, a wry, weary smile touching his lips. "Ask me how to become a hero, and I could give you a dozen paths. The steps are clear, the trials mapped. The names of monsters to slay, treasures to seek, kings to impress… these are written in the stars. But this… 'ordinary'…"
"Being ordinary is harder than it looks," Cyd said, a hint of his dry humor returning. He spread his hands. "Everyone's standard is different. One man's peaceful farm is another man's prison. One woman's simple joy is another's profound boredom. There's no single path to 'ordinary.' It's a moving target."
"And you have no desire to aim for the clearer target?" Prometheus asked, genuine curiosity in his tone. "The standards of a hero are written. Glory. Honor. Eternal fame in song. The path, while dangerous, is defined."
Cyd looked down at his own hands, pale and uncalloused. "You see all of humanity as your children, right?"
"I do," Prometheus said, his voice grave.
"Do you enjoy watching your children tear each other apart?"
The Titan flinched as if struck. The serene endurance on his face cracked, revealing a glimpse of an ancient, bottomless grief. He said nothing.
"Heroes," Cyd continued, his voice low but intense, "are born from the wishes of the people. They wield their swords to cleanse blights, to answer prayers. But heroes are people too. They cannot satisfy everyone. More than that… who can ever truly satisfy themselves?" He met Prometheus's pained gaze. "Glory. Love. Wealth. In this world—in any world—these are the currencies of heroes. And the fastest, easiest way to amass that currency? War. Conquest. To elevate themselves, heroes must, by necessity, tread upon the dignity, the homes, the very lives of others. I might… I will look upon their deeds with awe from a distance. I will sing their songs around a fire. But I will never seek to become one of them."
He took a deep breath, the cold air filling his lungs, clarifying his resolve. "Because I want to live an ordinary life. And then I want to die an ordinary death."
Cyd knelt on the hard rock before the bound Titan, not in subservience, but in earnest supplication. He bowed his head.
"Prometheus, Forethinker, Titan of Wisdom… hear my prayer. It is not for strength, or riches, or a place in legend. Guide me. Show me the path, however narrow and hidden, that leads to the ordinary. That is all I ask."