Prometheus

Hello. Prometheus was the immortal who in Greek myth stole fire from the gods and gave it to his favourite mortal, humans. His name means 'forethought' and fire was often used as a symbol for thought and knowledge. Zeus, king of the gods, punished Prometheus for this by chaining him to a rock in the Caucasus. He also punished humanity by sending them a woman called Pandora ('all gifts') and  a box. Pandora, a curious person by nature was instructed not to open the box. She could not resist, of course. When she opened the box a great stream of plagues and sufferings and whatnot streamed out of the box to bedevil humanity.
I have written a thing inspired by this myth which I think I thought I'd share with you. It is a chained Prometheus addressing an exultant Zeus and it goes thusly:

PROMETHEUS

They were cold. They were frightened, flinching at half-seen phantasms in the dark. They were left wanting for even the most basic of necessities; left wanting by you, the all-powerful Father. Abandoned. Wretched. Hopeless. Forgotten in the dust by you whom they had been taught would protect them. By you whom they had been taught to love. By you whom they had been taught only became wroth with them when they deserved it. They believed themselves to be less than they were; to be children, subjects to the inscrutable will of the Father, slaves to the whims of the master. They were sad, scared, pathetic creatures, these humans. I heard them crying out and it wrenched my heart. I heard them say:

“Please, Father! I’m hungry!”

“Please, Father! I hurt and I don’t know why!”

“Please, Father! Some curse has fallen upon me! I’m weak, and I’m dying and I’m scared!”

I heard this. Night after night I heard this. I heard the panic, the wailing, the sobbing of these broken-hearted children. I heard it echoing off the sky until the very stars wept at their inability to help. I heard it, and I know you heard it – how could you not? You heard it and you did nothing. Nothing! You left them in their futile misery because “their nature makes them unsuitable for anything more!”

I pitied them in their pointless, helpless plight. How could you not? How could you hear their pleas and see their terror at a world not their own and not do everything in your power to soften their hardship? How could anyone refuse to give them a little bit of warmth and light?

You did, though.

So I gave them a spark, a few embers to distract them from their fears and how they marvelled. How they laughed to see that these demons they feared were nothing more than branches flailing in the wind. They fed the fire and it fed them and they started to stand a little taller.

Those few inches brought them too close to you, though, didn’t they? Too close to Olympos’ lofty heights. Secure in your storm-walled fortress you saw those scant few inches as an unacceptable threat to your power. Uppity servants need to be put in their place, don’t they? They need to be made small so they don’t think they have the power to rise further than the walls of their confines. You had them in their cage for a reason, after all. They weren’t good enough to try their hand at all the joys beyond the four walls you so thoughtfully put around them for their own safety.

You, o most myopic of deities, not only could you not see the wonders this little lump of liberty would make possible, but you actually punished them for daring to reach for it!

Did you really think, foul and impotent godling, that she would be a punishment? Did you really think she, this daughter of my heart, imbued with the self-same curiosity and kindness that saturates my own ichor, would be a burden to these mortals? She is a rock on which they can stand tall, a rocket to launch them to such heights that your Olympos will seem a squalid anthill.

Send your plagues, she will cure them. Have your wars to thin the ranks of men, she and those like her will compose epics on the joys of coming home. Sow your jealousy amongst their hearts; she will drive her race to seek pure and everlasting joys. She will light such fires in the hearts of mortals that the fear on which you depend for your power will soon be nought but ash, a poorly-remembered childhood nightmare.

So rattle the clouds with thunder, scrawl threats across the sky with lightning-charged ink howl with rage from your little throne; it will do you no good. My inquiring daughter will give them all the gifts you denied them. She will forge for them all the tools you feared they might wield. She will lead them to wonders that you in your arrogant ignorance never dreamed possible. She will end your loathsome reign.

One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward