EoM Bk 1: The Gift of Fire
Copyright© 2026 by Carlos Santiago
Chapter 11: Seeds for The One
“One man is (worth) ten thousand, if he is the best.”
— Heraclitus of Ephesus (c. 535–475 BCE), Fragment 49 (Diels–Kranz numbering), preserved in Stobaeus, Anthologium. Original Greek: εἷς ἐμοὶ μύριοι ἐὰν ἄριστος ᾖ. From Heraclitus’ lost work On Nature, composed in the late 6th–early 5th century BCE. Public domain.
Zeus appeared in a form very nearly close to his true form. He removed the aura of his godhood because his divine sheen would kill a mortal, and the months had been kind between Elysía and himself.
As such, he determined that she understood who and what he was. She never questioned his false name, but he made clear to her that he was a god, and she did not think less of him for it.
The months after the announcement were the happiest in his life. While he did not think of Elysía as he did other lovers, he saw a connection between her and Metis. There was simplicity, there was pushback, but never so much that the stakes felt out of hand. For him, that was everything.
The room where Elysía labored was small and built of stone and timber that Zeus had put together for her. While he would not give her fire, using the skills that the other mortals had to make a crude house was not unfair as a ‘god’ had not given her the home but rather a man had.
The night wind stirred the apple trees, but no storm followed in Zeus’ wake. That was both because of the restraint and because he would not allow the birth of his firstborn mortal son to be ruined by the wetness of rain.
Elysía cried out, gripping the woven cloth beneath her hands. Pain and effort were etched upon her face, and Zeus wished he could fix this issue of suffering for her.
For hours this went on.
She told him there was a woman in a village nearby that might help her give birth, but in this struggle of childbirth, she wanted to be alone with Zeus. She understood that as a god, he could not stay with her all of the time, let alone the idea of marriage, yet Zeus almost wished that he could.
This smaller existence was wonderful.
Every struggle and every hardship made his life greater with meaning. As her face grew slicker from her efforts, he held her hand. Minutes turned into hours, and hour by hour, she persevered.
Surely, there were godly ways to heal her, but she never asked him to do so, and he marveled at her for this inner fortitude.
When the child finally came, her cry broke into laughter, erasing all of the despair and pangs of birth. She gathered the newborn to her chest as though nothing else in the world existed. Zeus found some unused rags to use for cloth but discarded them when he realized that this son was of the line of Olympus.
He tore off a piece of his chiton and wrapped up his living breathing son. Unlike the gods of Olympus, he saw light and power but no shine of divinity in him.
“My boy,” Elysía whispered, tears streaking her cheeks. “You are so beautiful.”
She looked up to Zeus and asked what they should name their son.
The idea of this being her first child, and a new firstborn to Zeus because of the link with humanity; only one name came to mind.
“Prôtos,” Zeus muttered.
He was the first of his kind. Prometheus had been right. This was a link between the gods of Olympus and the mortals down below. IN this small, red-faced, crying baby, there was a bond that Zeus would never deny.
A smile crept upon the King of Heaven’s face when the child opened his eyes.
For the briefest heartbeat, the air tightened within Zeus’ chest. He could see the flicker of a spark in the babe’s eyes. The power of lightning was within this body.
This child was rooted in humanity, but the fragment of Olympus’ fire also burned in him.
For all of his concerns about his godly children, he did not fear this mortal one because time could claim these beings. In truth, Zeus wanted to nurture this being. This child could be greater still than any on Olympus, but no matter what, he would die.
If there had been any fear about humanity, that truth gave peace in his heart. Any dread of humanity was nothing to worry about. How foolish he had been only a year ago...
He shook his head before kneeling beside Elysía and Prôtos. The lightning faded from Prôtos’ eyes as quickly as it had come, leaving only a newborn’s unfocused stare.
“Both you and the child will be cared for,” Zeus promised quietly.
Elysía smiled. He knew that she believed him, but the baby had stolen all of her attention and affections. For the first time since becoming a father, Zeus saw a mother who actually cared for their child more than they cared for him.
A ping of jealousy struck him in the chest, but then he smiled. That was how it should be. All off the maids and matrons that he had been with on Olympus had children out of obligation, for alliance, or for some strategic purpose. In her, Zeus knew that Prôtos would come first in every way for the rest of her life. That was what a parent should be, how a mother should be, and he knew that these two would be content for the rest of their lives.
Zeus rose and turned away. She was already undoing her top to feed their son, and he was not concerned.
He would provide for them, but he also suspected that they would be just fine.
“I will see him, Cratus,” Athena demanded.
Cratus did not move from the entrance of Zeus’ palace.
“The King of Olympus is occupied, Athena. You will see him when he deems, not when you do.”
“With what, you overgrown babysitter?” she demanded.
“That,” Cratus replied, unimpressed, “is not yours to know.”
She could see that her comment irritated the powerful deity. Having time for his pride was not something she cared about though.
Diplomacy was difficult for her when she was already doing something that she felt was challenging to her beliefs. Nevertheless, she swallowed her pride and moved the conversation forward.
“I am not a child seeking comfort, Cratus,” she said through gritted teeth. “If I were, I would understand your hesitancy. I have come with knowledge that concerns Olympus itself, and my father knows of my loyalty...”
“Everyone believes that their business is the most important, Athena. You’re hardly different...”
There were a thousand answers to that. The first and foremost was the reminder that Athena often proved her loyalty to her father. The second was a reminder that Metis, Athena’s own mother, had been the one to save Zeus so many years ago from the grip of Typhon.
Before Athena could answer with either of those options or the plethora of her other comeback, the air moved from a single thunderclap.
Zeus emerged from behind the closed doors. The scent of earth and apple blossoms were upon her father, and Athena did not know why.
“My lord,” Cratus said quickly before dropping to one knee.
Zeus barely looked at the protector. He raised an eyebrow when he recognized Athena. After half a moment, he shook his head in irritation.
“Why does my palace sound like a marketplace when my dearest daughter is talking to one of my enforcers?”
Athena was about to address her father, but it was Cratus who found his tongue first as he rose to his feet.
“Athena insists upon disturbing you, my king,” he said, already defensive. “She claims that she has important information that affects all of Olympus, but I told her you were—”
“Enough,” Zeus said, raising a hand.
Silence was the only acceptable outcome for the three.
“I have seen something important though, Father,” she said.
Zeus studied her for a long moment. Athena did not know why, but he had the smallest look of fear that she could only assess to be close to a child getting caught doing something wrong.
“What is it?” he asked.
“This concerns humanity.”
His brother and Athena were well in hand. Decisions were made in that area.
She would likely turn him over to Zeus, and Prometheus would be arrested. If so, he would have little time, but thankfully, Zeus was distracted by his current paramour. That would buy Prometheus some much needed time to consider the future.
The wind howled along the cliffside that overlooked the battle between Titan and Primordial.
Prometheus stood to look at the once-battlefield again.
Long since were the scars gone. The water, time, and nature washed away even the memory of that First Age. Even after the ages piled upon ages, the land had just gone on.
Prometheus folded his hands behind his back and stared into the endless sight of sea and cloud.
Did any of them know what they were doing? No; of course not. They were just walking around blindly. The Realm was new, and wisdom did not exist because they were making the mistakes that others would learn from.
They could not know of the tangling mess that a single battle would create. Ouranos falling to Cronos birthed the cycle; of that, Prometheus was certain. Chaos had been circumspect, but Prometheus was piecing it all together.
For a time, he considered Thessaly, and so he went there in a flash. The valley was actually rather beautiful. Flowers and plant life were overrunning a place that was overflowing with bodies and ichor.
In its own way, Thessaly was a gathering of bloodlines brought together by patience because Cronos’ selfish actions led to a conflict that was inevitable. The choices were that of Cronos, but the conclusion of the war and Zeus becoming king were prophesied.
There was a bridge between free will and destiny. Once Prometheus crossed that line or stood in between, perhaps he would see the best path ahead.
From that view, he could determine whether or not humanity could be allowed to grow. If so, there would likely be a slow, painful process to turn the species from what they were into a wise and generous community.
As he considered this thought, his vision of the future altered so that he could see Zeus being deposed not by shock, but by inevitability.
As he noted before, all out rebellion would only lead to failure. A ruler needed to be replaced by relevance, not insurgency. A seditious revolt could be put down; a cultural upheaval that was slow, methodical was one that lasted. Change over a long enough period of time felt as though no change had occurred at all, Prometheus realized.
Much like the changes to Thessaly and the cliffside. Both had witnessed cataclysmic conflicts, yet over time, they had returned to how they were meant to be, and nobody noticed the change because their eyes were elsewhere. By the time anyone noticed (including Prometheus) it was too late to do anything.
When time was no longer considered to be abundant, the flow would feel too slow for others.
He closed his eyes and focused on the future more singlemindedly.
He saw branches of possibility thinning as moments passed.
Zeus tightening his grip became inevitable out of fear of the possible. Olympus would calcify under those conditions and turn inward. Such a plan was foolish by Prometheus’ metric because it was planning to endure not to lead. For some, that would qualify as the same thing, but Prometheus knew better.
If he were truly wise, this would give Zeus too much time to adapt to a plan that required so much time.
Humanity would not be allowed to mature quietly, but with Zeus and his affections on a mortal woman, that might be enough to sway him to keep humanity alive.
What was required for a revolution for Olympus to turn against Zeus?
One.
The idea had been one that he kept returning to over and over again. Ouranos had been the focal point of the Primordials. The idea was so singular that it simply made sense. Maybe there was not the best logic being applied, but Prometheus understood in the marrow of his bones that each age had a ruler.
Ouranos, Cronos, and Zeus.
Each commanded their own. Each stood tall. From their time and stature, they were the face of their ages.
Focus was the counter. Humanity would have thousands upon thousands; maybe even millions if Prometheus was right about their propagating abilities. Olympus would only have so many thousands. They were not the ones to have child after child.
Yet as he thought, he realized that was not the many that cultivated success. Six children from Cronos had been enough to stop him. Six Titan sons were enough to stop Ouranos. Piece by piece was falling into place, showing him what he needed and what might be won from such a fruitful endeavor.
Out of the many, there were a few to stand against Zeus personally. The many needed to be won over, the few needed to be on this king’s side, but there would need to be one. One being who stood above the others.
He could not bend as Atlas did even with the weight of the sky on his shoulders. He could not compromise as Athena did. He could not become self-involved like Hera.
For the common rabble, they would think this meant the ruler would need to be perfect. Not so for Prometheus. There was perfect as an ideal and then there was being a good ruler. He could make mistakes but the crown, not the idea of the crown, must come first.
Of the hundreds who called themselves gods, most were ... nothing. They chased after power and authority for its own sake or to say, ‘I am your better’. This made them little more than glittering ornaments clinging to a throne they neither understood nor deserved. They were pathetic targets, waiting to be struck. They would crumble or shatter at first contact should war come to Olympus.
Others had conviction. He thought of Hestia in her kindness, Ares in his focus, Demeter in her loyalty to Persephone, Hephaestus had his artful crafting, and even Gaia with her righteousness.
In those light them, a fight could be found. He could build upon that.
Then there were the rare ones.
Athena had a callous, calculating nature. Hera had her dignity that told Prometheus she would not bend or break no matter what was brought down upon her. Hades was a virtuous nobility made manifest.
They all wanted more for existence.
They could not lead anyone into the new age because they were all products of the previous one, and so too the one that could bring about a better tomorrow would need to be forged by the current age.
His thoughts returned, inevitably, to his precious creation of humanity.
He almost pitied what he was expecting of this being.
The One could not be merely a warrior. Nor a king. Strength, like Zeus’ might, without wisdom, much like Metis’ keen mind, would fail. However, wisdom without courage would stagnate and become too self-important. Poetry and song, like the Muses, were important. Endurance for a person, not a kingdom, was good as well. There would need to be struggles, or else this individual risked becoming exactly like Zeus.
A being shaped by opposition, not comfort, would be difficult to produce. Then, Prometheus realized that there was a being of pure opposition, much like Cronos and Ouranos.
Zeus was the bastion of this Third Age, and he would die long before he was willing to give his throne up.
That could be good, but then, Prometheus understood by building a person up to be more than the sum of their parts, and greater still than the Thunderer, he was risking existence because there would only be one conclusion.
The One would need to battle Zeus for the throne of Olympus. His vision of a champion blinking from mortality to godhood flashed before his mind.
If they had more power than Zeus, then ... they could easily become more dangerous to existence than Zeus.
The realization settled fully, heavy and irrevocable.
The One must stand above the others. One must be the person they all look to, so that they can lead them where they are meant to go. The One would need to be deserving.
The role of this road was not the destination like it was for Zeus. This was a path that was meant to be walked. The outcome would be assured in that this individual would be king, but each step was vital in ensuring that they were a good one.
A quiet laugh escaped him. The sound was low, rueful, but also fondly from his heart.
Knowing the end did not mitigate the journey, and there would be more adventures to have after success, but removing himself from the equation was key. He knew that much of the matter.