EoM Bk 1: The Gift of Fire
Copyright© 2026 by Carlos Santiago
Chapter 2: That Which Binds
“We’ve heard the tale since we were young,
Heard the songs that have been sung,
About an evil spell.
Someone beautiful is cursed
We feel sad through every verse
Til a kiss and all is well!”
— “The Curse,” performed by Ribaldi/Rigoletto (as portrayed by Joseph Paur), from Rigoletto (1993). Written and directed by Leo D. Paur; produced by Feature Films for Families. Music and lyrics by Larry Bastian and Kurt Bestor. © 1993 Feature Films for Families. All rights reserved. Note: Rigoletto (1993) is a moral and spiritual reimagining of Beauty and the Beast, which itself was a thematic adaptation of Rigoletto, the 1851 opera by Giuseppe Verdi (1813–1901) with a libretto by Francesco Maria Piave (1810–1876), based on Le Roi s’amuse (1832), a tragic play by Victor Hugo (1802–1885).
There were a million places to be but nowhere to go for Hera. She understood this as she looked out at the marvelous city from the balcony of her palace. A marble structure could meet clouds, yet still she would feel distant from all beings on the shit show of a city that was her to rule over. The faint scent of storm wafted up her nose, and she turned away in disgust at the notion of the weather of her husband’s domain ruling over the day.
She returned her gaze to see all Olympus spread outward like a crown set upon the skull of creation. This was hers to have and command.
Beautiful, gorgeous, magnificent, breathtaking, wonderful, marvelous, awe-inspiring. Olympus was all of these descriptors and more. This one of a kind city always had been and always would be.
When it came to being more, Hera recognized this godly metropolis as her eternal cage.
This was where she would be for all of forever. She understood that after her husband ‘forgave’ her. His absolution was beyond conditional.
Her power was his power, but his power was his own. Every single day was a reminder of this fundamental truth that haunted her daily.
Marriage to Zeus, Hera had learned, was not a bond of affection, but rather a contract that had more to do with his understanding rather than hers or a communal one that she saw practiced by other couples.
On the day he had pardoned her, Zeus had admitted fault, had shown her mercy, but never once did he apologize for his wrongdoings. That was not his way in their arrangement.
All of that was to say, tender devotion was to be given by Hera but not expected to be returned. She was bound to her husband because of some golden apples created by Gaia that no other god could eat by Zeus’ decree, and because of this, Hera could not be intimate with any other person while Zeus was free to do as he pleased.
That was her truth. Zeus was free. Only he was free, but there were rules on everyone else.
And because of her marriage to him, Hera could not leave. What would running off get her? He could find her, or maybe he would replace her with someone younger, more attractive, or even someone just more compliant to his demands.
Someone like Leto came to mind for the Queen of Olympus, and Hera shuddered in disgust.
Divine females like her were as common as a leaf in a forest. They would do anything to climb the ranks of importance on Olympus when they did nothing but get on their knees or lay on their backs to find their success.
Hera has been a warrior like no other. It was through her own efforts (as well as the efforts of the other gods) that an unpopular despot had been removed from power. That he was replaced by another despot who happened to be popular was immaterial to those that loved her husband.
That was what everything came down to in the end, and as she realized that, and she thought about how her husband did whatever in Tartarus he wanted, she saw her husband.
The King of the Olympus shed his thunderous power as one might shed a cloak. His height diminished to that of a smaller, insignificant being until Hera realized that the divine glow of sovereignty dulled, and he appeared no more than a regular mortal.
Hera did not flinch but rather recoiled in utter disgust.
She leaned against the balustrade as she saw a god, the god, of Mount Olympus impersonating one of Prometheus’ hairless apes. Her fingers tapped the cool stone as her violet eyes followed him only long enough to confirm the truth of what she already knew.
He was leaving Olympus for his own needs.
But what needs required him to play-act as a common, stupid mortal? The other gods of Olympus loved those stupid play-things that Prometheus made. For the life of her, Hera could not see the fascination. She had a garden full of peacocks and an orchard full of trees that held more interest for the monarch, yet the rabble loved the Iapetus’ son’s creations.
Long ago, she might have shouted or hurled curses about Zeus doing whatever he wanted. When he had slept with Leto, Hera had felt jealousy or maybe hurt by him being unfaithful. Emotions like jealousy had burned in her like a living organism trying to burst free; however, sustained resentful envy required love.
And love was a unique facet to reality. Hera had not loved Zeus; she never had. She had tried, but if she ever had cared for him on such a deep level, she had learned that such a feeling was the first thing a god could lose without noticing.
She turned away as Zeus jumped off the mountain toward the mortal realm.
As she went back to thinking of their union, she was aware that their marriage would not pretend devotion on his part. Perhaps, he was meeting with another goddess in a secret cave for a salacious rendezvous; maybe there was a nymph somewhere like Thetis, who was offering him some tawdry affair on his terms.
No matter what it was, Hera was powerless to stop such a union. Even if she had not made a magical vow to never knowingly raise her hand against him (which she had out of self-preservation), any chance she had to defeat her husband would require an army.
She would not wound Olympus with open war. That had been the only level of restraint that might have saved his life when she had tried to depose him. That, and his foolishly fearful daughter Athena, had been the only thing to prevent his death.
What was left was what was. The two of them would remain loyal to one another, not in the heart or even that of the flesh for Zeus, but in oath to one another’s thrones. Zeus recognized that Hera was the one doing the day to day duties that he was poor at. He was the might that could physically protect their kingdom; she was the diplomacy ensuring the heavens did not fall apart into some fractured mess that could not be put back together.
The other gods would see stability and call this existence peace.
Her long dark hair stirred in the breeze, and she used her light olive-colored hand to fix the imperfection. Even as she did so, she recognized that she appeared untouched by care or flaw. The illusion was so entirely perfect that she almost believed it herself.
Hera would reign as Queen of All, while never once being free of her husband’s authority.
She moved through the inner halls of her palace. There were tapestries depicting victories that were the result of her husband’s decisions and not hers that had been gifted to her by one of Zeus’ many children to appease her. They were called the Muses or something. Hera did not care. Beside those images were weavings depicting Hera as a Mage and as an Archer of Olympus made by Athena. Those victories belonged to her, but the gift was from Zeus’ traitorous little brat.
Yet still, among the gold, ivory, and silk, they hung because they fit. The public loved them. But in the quiet, they were just a cold reminder that everything stemmed from Zeus.
As she thought of Athena, Hera flinched. Since her betrayal, Athena had gotten the entirety of Zeus’ retinue of children to address her as ‘Mother’. Though she did not birth them, she was still given the honorific because she was married to her father.
Just another piece of her prison was her only thought. Permanence and appearance was all she had.
Part of her wanted to cry. This portion of her screamed out for her to wail and beat herself and just give in.
Yet, as she paid attention to nothing, a soft voice broke the quietude.
“Mother?”
Hera turned to see her little, darling girl.
Hébè stood at the threshold to the dining room that Hera had found herself in.
Her daughter’s golden hair fell in gentle waves to her shoulders, catching the light of Helios that reflected into a gleaming result rather than a traditional shine. Her eyes were a clear, earnest blue that brought a smile to Hera’s face. In the eyes of Hébè, there was no cloud of suspicion and not a single touch of calculated machination.
She wore a simple gown of white and blue to illustrate the simplicity she offered existence in her gracefully easy youth. She had not yet learned to guard itself, and if Hera had any say, she never would have to learn.
Hébè looked towards her mother curiously. The queen wondered if the faint ache showed on her face when she realized that the softness of her daughter was exactly as existence should be.
The monarch discarded the idea when her young daughter spoke.
“Do you need anything, Mother?” Hébè asked.
The question was spoken in her soft, simple kindness that Hera recognized would be dangerous for her to answer.
Hera studied her daughter for a long moment.
This was a child of peace and reconciliation. She had conceived her only fifteen years ago, but she was aging slowly. Hera thought she looked something like a smart twelve year old, but she could not be sure. She represented a youthful renewal when Hera made her last ditch effort to try and forgive Zeus, but that had been a farce of an attempt of duty, not passion.
Hébè was her little girl who had never seen war in Olympus. This child had never watched gods turn against one another in Hera’s sad attempt at a coup. She would never learn how to carefully turn a smile into a weapon.
Hera would keep her that way. Hébè was not made for war, politics, scheming, or machinations. She was Hera’s last effort at innocent goodness.
“No, darling daughter,” she said at last with a gentle composure. “There is nothing I need.”
Hébè smiled in relief at her mother’s satisfaction before dipping her head in quiet obedience and stepping back into the exiting corridor.
Hera watched her go with a smile.
How such perfection could be born from the flawed, imperfect union of Zeus and Hera, the queen could never know.
The Queen of Heaven and Earth returned her gaze back towards the direction of the balcony she had come from. The creation of her union with her husband reminded her that Zeus was gone, doing who knew what.
None of that mattered to her when she closed her eyes. Her prison may have glittered around her, but she had some prizes worth far more than her husband understood.
For the smallest, tiniest, infinitesimal moment, that was enough.
The workshop was practically barren. Some bronze tools lined the walls or were strewn on the ground; however, there were no unfinished works or wonders. Why should there be? There was no need for molds, clay, half-shaped figures of metal.
The greatest masterpiece that this very workroom had ever made was alive. There was no need to make. What once smelled of ash and oil could only be stale in the absence of toiling creation.
Prometheus stood near the central anvil and ran his finger over the metal. How many days and hours had been spent in this room in the smallest flicker of hope that he and his brother might make humanity?
He was nearly eight feet tall. His shoulders were broad and his chest was muscled but not defined. His dark hair was not long and flowy like Zeus or Apollo, but trimmed in a shorter fashion. Burn scars traced from fingertips to forearms, yet this did not harm the simpler attractiveness that he had. In fact, the flaw only added to his unadorned handsome features.
His face was thoughtful, but for him, he was reminiscing.
For someone who could see the future, the past had a melodic hold over him. The nostalgic recollections of working in the smaller space had brought him joy.
“Life was so much simpler back then,” Epimetheus remarked slowly.
Epimetheus was identical in body and face, save for the eyes and forearms. Where Prometheus’ gaze was sharp and distant with the capability to see the future, Epimetheus’ was more introspective and not weighed down by regret.
He made his way to a stone seat and brushed some dust before sitting down.
“You rarely visit anymore, Brother. Should I assume something is wrong?”
“Does something need to be wrong for me to visit, my twin?” Prometheus remarked.
Epimetheus replied in a knowing gaze. The admission from Prometheus that Epimetheus was his twin gave the Hindsight Titan certain leverage over his brother. This was a confirmation that Epimetheus was the equal to Prometheus as well as having an intimate understanding of the forward thinker.
That look, coupled with the complex feelings that Prometheus felt when it came to Zeus and the mortals, defeated Prometheus’ stalwart composure.
“I have reached the end of what I can offer humanity, Brother,” Prometheus said at last. His voice was steady, but exhaustion was creeping in. “While they exist, I feel they endure more than they live.”
Epimetheus laughed softly at his brother’s sentiment.
“You think too much, Prometheus.”
He got up and clapped his brother on his back. The smile never faded from his face.
“The work of making them was the point. Any moment they existed beyond the first few minutes is a gift, Brother. They do not need to be large or powerful or even amazing like us,” he went on. “They are not us. We are not them. We would not fault a bird for not understanding how to swim. We are all different. There’s beauty in that contrast. Just like you and me. We are different, but we are brothers. Always.”
Prometheus turned to face him fully in disbelief. Leave it to the brother everyone overlooked to present Prometheus with a consideration that he had not even given the time of day.
“They were meant to be,” Epimetheus pressed. “That is enough, Brother!”
“I guess I just want more for them.”
Epimetheus shook his head and laughed again.
“I did the same thing when we lost the Pandora statue. But then, humanity grew anyway. That was much more than I could have ever expected.”
Prometheus did not reply to this immediately because his brother was making too much sense.
“They are more than you or I could ever think,” Epimetheus said quietly.
“Do we know that?”
Prometheus did not mean to contradict him in that form of a question.
“I’ve watched them from afar, same as you and the others,” Epimetheus continued. “I am aware that they huddle in caves, try to fight our animals with stones, and more often than not, they die alone, cold, hungry, and afraid. But our lives are not their lives.”
He stopped to sigh. In that exhalation, there was a quiet mourning for the lives lost of their precious creation. Each life mattered to Epimetheus as they had mattered to Prometheus.
“They are learning what it means to exist. Every generation of humanity is a link in a chain for their species. Each generation takes a small step forward toward us. They may stumble, fall, regress, and even falter, but I have no doubt that one day, Brother, they will join us here on Olympus.”
The reply baffled Prometheus into stunned silence for a moment. When he found his grounding, he spoke.
“How do you see things so clearly?”
“Everyone loves you because you have wisdom for the moment and the future. Don’t think I don’t know that your gift is allowing you to see things only Atropos should be witnessing.”
Prometheus blushed mildly in a small amount of shame. He had not meant to keep his ability from his brother, but he had been secretive about its uses, yet still his twin had seen through the smallest barrier of omission.
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