Fire Leaves the Body, but Remains in the Soul

“My son, is that you?”

His voice ushers a chill down my spine. Vultures circle above his head, shadows emitted by their flapping wings cover his hollow gaze. His body, ravaged by deep gashes, torn skin, and shredded flesh, has long been restrained by heavy iron chains strapped to an unwieldy boulder. The breathtaking vista behind him is veiled by the weight of iron shackles. A sweeping view of endless beauty, unreachable behind bars of torment. The summit of Mount Caucasus reveals a paradise, yet his soul remains imprisoned; the sky’s endless expanse mocks him, just out of reach for limbs bound in suffering. Instead, his glazed eyes rest on my own, ignoring the looming trees beside me. The weight of his gaze surpasses that of a dozen anvils. I almost forget to speak.

“Prometheus...” I say, not knowing how to follow.

“No, not anymore,” he answers in a hoarse growl. “I am a relic now of a bygone era.”

“Why are you here?”

He raises his brow as by instinct of interrogation. “Sin, my son. It is my sins that have enraged Zeus and cast me here in eternal punishment.”

“Do you regret your past?”

“Regret? Do you regret the love you feel for your mother? For your sons? I bear no guilt for the love that brought me here. I bleed with my conscience clear and my heart full.”

“But to betray the Gods…”

“The Gods? What do you know of Zeus and his court, boy? They did not create humanity; they merely seized a kingdom built by those who came before. It was I, a Titan who turned against his own, who shaped your kind from clay. Can’t you see, child? That curious, questioning mind within your skull is the very transgression that incensed Zeus all those eons ago.”

“So it is true,” I challenge. “You scorned Zeus for defeating your brothers in the war. Humanity was your tool, your scapegoat, and Zeus saw through you.”

His face contorts in response to my claims, his eyes closing tightly as a piece of torn eyelid is left twitching. With his eyes still shut, he speaks, “You insult me, my boy. There was never ill tidings between the Gods and me because of the Titanomachy. Though I was once a Titan, I am now the god of forethought, among other things. This was no accident; the fall of Cronus was but one of the many outcomes I foresaw and continue to foresee, as is the rise of new gods and kings, and the rebellions they will bring. No, my troubles with Zeus were never bred from vengeance.”

A bird glides above, bored with the commotion below and hungry for a snack, it swoops down towards the helpless captive. I watch as the vulture descends, sinking its claws into his abdomen and tearing into the flesh, pecking at his exposed liver. Prometheus groans in agony as more birds circle closer to the rock. Desperate, I snatch a stick from the ground and rush to his side, swinging at the vulture, careful not to harm its prey. I snarl at the drooling scavengers, forcing them to retreat, though not far. They have been here for generations, perhaps their ancestors feasted at this very spot, and they will surely return.

As I listen to his labored breathing, a wave of dread washes over me. Only now do I fully notice the lifelessness of his body. His limbs are still, his hair and nails grown wild and uncut for ages. Tears blur my vision as I grapple with a question that gnaws at my soul: what kind of reasoning could compel a man—no, a god—to endure such torment? Why has he not sought forgiveness, surrendered, or repented? And what kind of love drains a being of their very soul?

“Do not waste your tears on me, my son. I do not lie here for your pity. And my soul has not yet left my body.”

“Then why? Why would accept this torture? To be devoured by these beasts until your bones are bare, only to wake the next day whole and ready for another round of agony?”

“When the war subsided, I was merely a few hundred years old, my life still devoid of purpose. My rational, calculating mind, while sharp, had hindered me from taking any decisive action. My legacy was untouched, unwritten. It was not until Zeus’ request that my path became unmistakably illuminated.” He takes a deep breath, his lungs wheezing as blood bubbles in his throat. He continues, “Zeus tasked my brother, Epimetheus, with creating the animals of your world, granting them their fitting traits. They inherited my brother’s nature—acting on desire and instinct before reason. In his haste, Epimetheus granted his children all the traits available from the Gods, leaving your kind with nothing.”

“Prometheus, you humor me. Is this to suggest that I, and humankind alike, am beneath the animals who mindlessly roam the Earth?”

“No, no. You misunderstand me, my son. For I gave you a gift far more valuable than any physical or primal trait.”

“And what can be more valuable than the lifespan of a tortoise? The strength of an ox? The flight of a bird? Or the immunity to poison of a tropical frog?”

He chuckles, though it’s laced with pain. “All wonderful traits, indeed. Yet, you forget that man rules the beasts, not the other way around. Have you ever wondered as to why this is? With man’s lack of horns or claws for hunting, tendency to bruise easily, and his vulnerability to the elements, how do you suppose man conquered my brother’s creations?” I remain silent, unable to find an answer. A faint smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he continues, "The very way you stand, with your head held high and eyes lifted to the heavens, was no accident. You see, my boy, I molded you after the image of the Gods. I  nurtured your mind to embrace complex thoughts; I taught you mathematics, architecture, astronomy. For I knew that deep reasoning and a critical mind were far greater gifts than the extravagant abilities my brother granted his animals."

I sit at the base of the rock, lighting the tobacco pipe I've carried to the peak. Inhaling deeply, I exhale a thick cloud of smoke. The flame flickers in his eyes as he falls silent. "Would you like a puff?" I ask.

"No, no," he replies with another chuckle. "The smell alone makes me long for the birds." I exhale another plume, this time directing it away from him. "How curious. It was I who brought down fire from Olympus, my final gift to you. I've seen it cook the meat your bestial cousins eat raw. I've seen it used as a weapon, cities reduced to ash. And I've seen it wielded in gluttony, indulged as a tool of excess. In every case, your kind has found new ways to use my gift—a testament to the power of reason and independent thought. Yet, the consequences sometimes make one yearn for the impulsive, purposeless nature of an animal."

I snuff the pipe, the smoke curling around my feet. “So, it was fire that led you here. You stole it from the Gods, defying Zeus and sealing your fate.”

“That’s true, in a way. But it wasn’t my initial act that brought my punishment. It was the second theft that sealed my doom.”

“Twice? You stole fire twice? For what reason would you do such a thing?

“The first theft was largely tolerated by Zeus. And my reputation from the Titanomachy was enough to maintain my favor with the Gods. But it was my meddling in the matter of man’s sacrifice that ignited his fury and catapulted it against your kind.”

“Sacrifice?”

“In the early days of man, rather than hunting for game, mankind lived as gatherers, sustained by the seed-bearing plants that sprang from the earth. When fire gave way to the preparation and consumption of meat, man was expected to sacrifice a portion of the spoils to Zeus’ court. For my insistence on your self sufficiency moved you further from the dependence of the Gods, increasingly contrasting with the dull minded creations of Epimetheus. So, with cunning, I prepared two offerings for the Gods at the feast in Mecone: one, an alluring pile of bones cloaked in rich fat; the other, an unappealing ox's stomach filled with prime cuts of meat. When Zeus made his choice, he claimed the first pile. This deception did not last long; Zeus realized his folly and withheld fire from humanity once more, plunging your kind back into darkness and hardship. But the damage was done. Think of it, my boy—succulent roast lamb, honey-glazed pork ribs, tender beef stew simmered in rich wine. Think of the delicate taste of skewers of spiced sausages and platters of game birds stuffed with figs and olives.”

His mouth waters as he speaks, lost in the memory of past feasts. I wonder if he’s forgotten I’m here. He glances at me, puzzled by my lack of enthusiasm. “I’m sorry, I wouldn’t know. I maintain an abstinence from meat, much like Pythagoras and Socrates.”

“Bah,” he scoffs. “And what would your philosophers know of the Gods’ gifts. Of course, I am not unaware of my own contributions to your fledgling schools of thought. Do as you wish, I suppose. Who am I to deny the ways in which you use what I’ve given. I simply sought to offer you the choice, for that I am content.”

“I understand the goodwill behind your intentions, but after all this time, after witnessing generations come and go, there must be some semblance of regret in your mind.”

“My boy, I am not here for the actions I have committed. I am here for those I would have committed if Zeus stayed idle. I could relive my life countlessly, and each time end here on this rock gnawed on by birds, only for you. For humanity. For my children. I would gladly give my body to the Gods. But my soul is clean, it is tranquil. For it knows that mankind has access to gifts the Gods share. Thank you for visiting me here today. Do not leave in sadness. Be proud, for your father is proud of you.”

And with these words, I leave the Titan alone, at the peak of Mount Caucasus, to continue his eternal torture. The trees blur past me as I descend. The grass and dirt beneath my feet vanish in favor of the swaying waves of Poseidon’s seas. I look up and the heavens part before me. A booming voice shakes the shifting clouds.

“Hermes,” it thunders. “What have you learned? Has our old friend denounced his ways?”

“I am afraid some things never change, Lord Zeus. Prometheus is as stubborn as you say. But there is admiration to be found in his commitment to mankind.”

“Then he will rot. No man will visit him—not today, not in a millennia. He will watch as humanity destroys itself with the gifts he stole from us. And it will break him. Trust your king, Hermes. This I promise you.”