Prometheus Bound

Chapter I: The Binding

“This is much too good for the likes of you. To defy the Sky Father’s will ought to have earned you a one-way ticket to Tartarus. We should be taking you to its black flames, have them tear your flesh from your bones, Prometheus,” said Kratos, tilting his head up to address the Titan. Prometheus kept his own head level and his gaze upon the trail they traversed.

This brute has no idea what suffering means, he thought to himself as he put one foot before the other; a task encumbered by the pusillanimous steps to which he had to resort. His natural gait would place the manacles wrapped around his ankles in a tug of war, each one pulling at the short chain between them. His wrists found themselves in a similar predicament, though free from the pressures of ambulation. However, their midway point was linked to another chain. This one travelled upwards to find its anchor about his fifth limb. He was free to move his arms from side to side, but resting them would mean pulling down upon his neck. So, he kept them up that he might stand two heads taller than his escorts.

“Looks like someone’s finally learned to shut it, hey B?” Kratos said as he tilted forward to address the woman on the other side of their prisoner’s flank.

Bia responded with a drawn-out, “Shiiit,” then continued, “I’d be quiet too if my mouth got thunder-clapped! But you know what they say, fuck around…”

“…and find out!” Kratos responded, to which they erupted into vicious laughter.

Bia and Kratos escorting Prometheus

A few paces behind them, there limped another figure.

Of all of Styx’s children, he thought to himself, it had to be THESE two.

Though he was free to move, one would have thought that he was the one in chains. His chest was just as proud as that of any other Olympian’s, but his neck was slightly craned and his eyes were watching his feet. One would have thought that he was counting his steps. Once the terrible twins were done with their cackling duet, they turned their attention towards him.

“I know that it's hard to walk with a limp, Hephaestus. But can you try to keep up?” Bia said.

“Yeah, you’re bringing down the mood. You should be the happiest one here. The thief stole from you,” Kratos said to the Lord of the Forge, who remained silent in thought.

Bia turned around and stepped into Hephaestus’ path.

He stopped and raised his gaze to look down into her eyes.

“When agents of Zeus speak to you, you respond,” Bia said with ice in her voice.

Hephaestus stood perfectly still for a few moments before dashing a grasp to her throat and she let loose a bellowing scream. He tightened his calloused hands about her windpipe. While her mouth stayed open, no sound came out of it. He then raised her several feet off the ground and tears began to flow from her eyes. After a few moments in suspense, she began to tap on the Great Smith’s arm. He held her there for a while longer before dropping her to the ground.

“You do not speak to a Son of Zeus in this fashion,” he said to her while she wheezed for breath.

“Son of Zeus?” Kratos scoffed. “We don’t even know if your mother –”

He was interrupted by the speed of it all. For within the blink of an eye, Hephaestus was upon him with a hammer-slamming punch to the gut. With the wind knocked out of his lungs, Kratos keeled over and fell to an all-fours prostration. Hephaestus then kneeled down and placed a vice-grip on the other’s chin. 

“Now that I have spoken to you in the language of your heart, you’ll indulge me as I speak from mine. That man…” he said whilst pointing at their mutual captive, “…is the father of my craft. He ‘stole’ nothing more than what he gave to us all. You will cease your mocks and taunts. Am I clear?”

Kratos gave Hephaestus a defiant lock of the eyes before submitting. “Chrystal,” he said.

“Good.” He relaxed his grip and raised himself to a full stand. He looked at Bia who was still recovering from her speaking to.

“The both of you, to your positions,” he said to her.

She hesitated.

“NOW!” he yelled.

Kratos groaned his way up before saying, “Come on, B.”

The two did as they were told.

Their solemn progression made their way through the Caucasus. When they came upon a sheer face, Hephaestus bid them cease. He went up towards the crag, gave it a gentle slap with his right hand, then swept it across towards his left. A wall of fire followed in his wake, melting the mountainside to a steaming obsidian finish. The Limping Smith then puckered his lips and inhaled, breathing in the heat from his masonic canvass. He turned to his entourage and blew the heat towards them. Upon impact, Bia and Kratos attempted a resistance before being knocked upon their rears. Prometheus though, stood in a narrow brace against the gale; with his eyes squinted, his hair and clothes streaking violently behind him. A few seconds of this and the Smith ran out of breath. Once he had ceased to blow, the chains upon Prometheus turned to black ash and collapsed to the ground.
“What the fuck?!” Bia yelled.

“Your services will no longer be required,” Hephaestus responded before turning his head to Prometheus. “Uncle,” he said gesturing to the smooth wall, “if you would be so kind.”

Prometheus levitated his way to the surface, then turned around to assume the position. He placed his back against it, then raised his arms to take the form of a T.

“What do you mean our services are no longer required?” Kratos asked.

“You are here to serve as escorts,” Hephaestus replied. 

“We are here to serve as GUARDS,” was Bia’s response.

“You think yourselves a match for the Forethinker? You are barely one for me. Your job was to escort Prometheus to his place of binding. He has been escorted. You may leave.”

“What if you try to set him free?” Bia responded.

“Then I shall reckon with the Sky Father, not with the cunt-shits of the Styx.”

Bia was just about to bolt for Hephaestus before her brother took her by the wrist and held her back. She looked back at him and he shook his head, leading her to relax and then look back at Hephaestus.

“One day, that,” she said whilst pointing at Prometheus, “is going to be you.” She turned and walked away.

Her brother spat on the floor and followed suit. Hephaestus turned to Prometheus and looked upon him, legs together and arms out. He hesitated for a moment before he said, “Father said that he wanted a chiastic position.”

Prometheus looked down at him.

“I’m sorry.” And he truly was. 

Prometheus let out a sigh before taking a wide step towards his left-hand side.

“I’m also going to need you to straighten your feet.”

He did as he was told.

Hephaestus burning the mountainside

 Hephaestus closed his eyes and clapped his hands before his face. Between them, there flashed a gentle flame as they came asunder, to reveal five metal stakes; each one a vivid Tyrian hue with vapours of black malice steaming off of them. From behind the clouds, Prometheus caught a glimpse of thin silver strands, wrapping the stakes in a helix from tip to top.

 The Forge Master then arrayed his instruments so that they resembled the fifth face of a die, except that the centre stake was a little higher.

“Brace yourself,” he said.

The Forethinker remained as he was. Hephaestus then launched four of the five stakes. They each sank into their destination; one for each of Prometheus’ palms and the convex peaks of his feet.

Pain stampeded from his every limb to converge upon his chest. From whence it attempted to break through his mouth and ascend as an offering to the skies and the thunder that lorded them.

But that is precisely what he wants, some part of him thought as he threw his head back and strove against his urges with an effort worthy of his lineage.

He was just about to wrestle the raging bull to the ground when it called for reinforcements and was answered; Hephaestus had launched the final stake. This one went straight for the Titan’s chest, piercing him, shattering his resolve, and setting free his erstwhile captive. The bull triumphed from his mouth and boomed in all directions, echoing in locations beyond fathom.

Prometheus felt as though he had bellowed his anguish for an eternity before he stopped. His head fell limp from the end of his neck, forcing his gaze to the fifth column upon his chest.

The Tyrian hue

The black malice

The silver strand.

And now, his golden blood had half-soaked the stake. Beyond the sight of his eyes, but within full view of the senses in his skin, his ichor streamed down his torso and began to drench his loincloth, yearning to leap from fabric to ground beneath, there to pool with its brethren.

“I’ve made this from an adamantine alloy,” Hephaestus said once Prometheus had regained his composure. “It’s mostly forged from my father’s will. However, there is a bit of mine there as well. You will find that healing is not as painful as it otherwise would have been.”

To this, Prometheus said nothing. Rather, he wheezed as his chest rose and fell in a rhythmic frenzy.

“Again, Uncle, I am sorry. I’m just doing—”

“As your—” two bloody coughs interrupted him before he inhaled to seize the third that he may continue, “father commands.”

Thunder rumbled from distant clouds. Hephaestus turned an eye to the approaching front before looking at Prometheus.

“Goodbye, Uncle,” he said before he walked away.

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