Tonight he did not relax.
Zeus desired his company.
Rarely did Zeus call upon him. Even more rarely was he invited
into the presence of that most august God. It did not please
him. Here, at his furnace shaping objects from hardest metal, he
felt at home. Let others court the company and favors of Zeus.
Nevertheless, he would go. Perhaps there was a chore to be
done, a mighty sword to fashion, a shield to form from molten
metal. Or, more likely, some damaged tool to repair, welding
broken parts to make a whole.
He stoked the fire, breathing the hot flames as though perfume.
Wiping sweat from his moist brow he hurried to ready himself for
his audience with Zeus.
Prometheus waited.
With Vulcan's departure he slipped into the celestial foundry,
inched ever closer to the heart of that huge factory. The
furnace glowed from the fire within.
Prometheus entrance was noted.
He knew not of the guard.
Vulcan had led a life of abuse, mistrust, and rejection. He
himself trusted no one. Though crippled he remained agile and
able, and used his skill with fire and metal to fabricate an
object of strange shape and size.
The object was formed of the strongest metals. Its joints were
cunningly hinged to allow motion. Its appearance was that of man
- rather, that of giant. For it was huge. Huge and massive.
Silently it stood guard in the empty foundry. A dead, useless
metal statue, a scarecrow for the vagrant birds that might pass
by.
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