In his ecstasy Prometheus did not for the moment realize that everything lay within the God-King's grasp, and he left in high spirits.
He returned to the mortal world once more, and in his excitement even that slight abnormality he had noticed in his own mother he completely forgot beneath the belief of his great success.
Clymene was left alone in the temple, her gaze complicated as she watched Prometheus's hurriedly departing back.
In her pair of ice-blue eyes there was worry that could not be dissolved.
She was already certain that her child was indeed scheming against the God-King!
That answer left her in despair.
Yet with one cheerful line from His Majesty—"Alright! Strike up the music! Keep dancing!"—
she could only hastily send Prometheus a word of counsel along the mind-channel, then turn and continue romping with the God-King.
"Prometheus, my dear child. I know there are things you mean to do. If you have already set your mind, then do them. Your Mother… will support you in all things."
"But, my dear child, before you do anything, please be sure to think it through carefully, again and again: Is it right? Is it rational? Are you still walking the bright, rightful path? Are you cautious enough?"
"Have you truly set down that arrogance and recklessness that can destroy everything? Do you still truly keep that reverence in your heart?"
"And the most important point—are you still strictly observing His Majesty the God-King's sacred and righteous order?"
"You are the god of foresight and foreknowledge; you are a clever and discerning god. I believe there is nothing you cannot see; I believe you will see farther than your mother."
"Only—some matters perhaps need the gathered wisdom of more gods to consider together, to find a truer and more perfect answer."
"If it is inconvenient to confide in your mother, then discuss it with your brothers; that might be a steadier course."
"My dear child, whatever you finally decide to do, your mother can support you."
"But… I only hope you do not let yourself be hurt. I hope you can think of your mother for a moment…"
"Your mother can no longer bear any of her children suffering such terrible pains and calamities…"
Prometheus, hurrying from Olympus, slowed as he saw the message from his mother; at last he stopped in midair.
His gaze, which had been set upon the earth, slowly turned back to Olympus's supreme holy mountain.
His eyes were infinitely complex.
And then, as he recovered some calm from that great joy, he suddenly realized that in His Majesty's words, the "promise" and "proclamation" to humankind seemed… very reserved, even… somewhat equivocal?
Moreover, all that had happened today…
seemed to have gone too smoothly…
So smoothly it felt familiar.
He stood alone in midair for a long while.
At last he sent a reply to Clymene.
"Dear Mother, I love you, and I know you love me even more. Now I have 'children' of my own. I love them as you love me."
"So there are things I must do. For the sake of my children, to fight for more and better space to live."
"Please believe me—there will be no trouble. His Majesty the God-King is merciful and magnanimous."
In the God-King's temple, amid the playful gods, Clymene remained anxious, her soul astray.
When she saw this reply, the heart she had held up at last sank completely.
She gave up all thought of further persuasion.
For a true mother can understand the parents' love that will do anything for their children.
Likewise, as a mother, she knew this child of hers too well.
Prometheus, to all appearances, was not as pedantic as his father Iapetus.
Yet in his bones flowed the same, even greater—stubbornness.
Once they chose their path, they were always so unshakable.
Whether that path was right or wrong; whether that decision was rational or not.
Yes—this is what a god is.
A true god.
Perhaps this is that inescapable fate of their family of the Ever-Cycling.
Cycles, repeating.
Clymene was now certain that the ill omen she sensed would become reality.
Nor was her worry in vain.
As one of the earliest daughters of Ocean, and among the longest-lived of the gods, she had seen too many rises and falls, too many cycles, had seen creation and destruction.
She knew that to gain is to pay.
If you would lay hands on what you ought not to covet, you must pay a price.
The further beyond your capacity you reach, the greater the price you must pay—even to the point that you cannot bear it.
Any god, indeed any mortal, may do as they will—only they must bear the price of their willfulness.
And the price of doing too much is one that absolutely cannot be paid.
As with scheming against the God-King, offending the God-King's majesty.
That is a price no god, no being at all, can possibly pay.
His Majesty is merciful and magnanimous, but why offend Him?
To go so far, greedy and insatiable, to trick by opportunistic means what ought not be obtained—can there truly be a good end, even if you get what you want?
Why be so stubborn, unwilling to trust in His Majesty the God-King's mercy and breadth?
His Majesty is merciful and magnanimous; if met with sincerity, He may well grant.
But if met with deceit, despair will surely follow.
Why would you think to scheme against His Majesty the God-King?
It cannot succeed!
It is an unspeakably foolish and unspeakably wrong thing!
Now His Majesty seemed as though nothing had happened, but the result was already fixed.
The God-King admits no offense, no scheming.
Her heart was filled once more with the pain of breaking.
The sea of bitterness she had forced down rose again,
and with a larger, fiercer wave it crashed hard upon her.
Within the God-King's temple there were still songs and laughter, warm togetherness, as if there were no cares in the world.
And so there were; in the God-King's temple, what worries could the goddesses who served at His side possibly have?
But she had them.
Because of her child.
She felt even her breathing had grown hard.
If not for forcibly controlling herself by divine power, this daughter of Ocean's tears would have long since flooded the temple.
Why…
Why are children always like this?
Hot-tempered, arrogant, rash, obstinate.
They always run headlong down the path they choose.
They do not care about anything before them, nor anything behind them.
They dash through, heedless, straight toward that dark road.
As if utterly unaware that before them lies a bottomless abyss that can swallow everything.
In her heart she asked herself again and again:
Why?
Can they not, just a little, turn back and look at their mother?
Can they not listen to their mother's earnest pleading?
Their mother has always been frightened for them!
Their mother only wants them to live well!
Only wants them to live well, happily, without care, to enjoy to the full this cosmos that grows ever more splendid and beautiful!
But this wish seemed so fragile before stubbornness.
Clymene felt as if her heart would break.
Thinking of the pain and punishment her child might face, her chest felt crushed beneath a boulder, so painful she could not breathe.
No matter how tough her nature, no matter how discerning her wisdom, she could no longer bear this endless pain, as if her divinity were being torn to pieces again and again.
At some point she had gone pale as paper, her eyes blank as she stood fixed, as if all her divinity had been drawn from her shell.
The laughter in the temple, as if heard through a heavy curtain of water, grew blurred and unreal.
In her ears there was only the wail of her divinity breaking.
She had become a bystander, a ghost starving alone at a feast.
But just then, the libertine God-King, blindfolded and groping about the hall—whether by intent or not—caught hold of the motionless Clymene in one sure grasp.
And He, without the least courtesy, drew her tight into His broad, burning embrace.
With that solid chest He hid the deathly pallor of her grief.
A barely audible whisper rode the faint breath from His lips, warm with thunder's heat, directly into her ear.
None but she could hear it.
"My dear Clymene, my goddess bright as a spring-clear river—why do I feel a dark undercurrent of sorrow surging in your heart?"
"As the most capable steward of my God-King's temple, is there truly anything that can make you feel powerless?"
"If there is… am I not here?"
"If you are sad because a child is too willful and reckless, then all the less need you care."
"For I am here."
"I am the Father of the gods; even if some errors need punishment and correction, it will be… only that."
"Do not be sad, do not be grieved. You need only remember forever: so long as I am here, there is no problem in this cosmos that is truly a problem."
"My God-King's temple cannot do without its most competent steward. Why think so many useless thoughts? You need only look after our 'home.'"
All this took but a breath or two to enter Clymene's heart.
These words were like the warmest, brightest sunlight, at once piercing all the haze in her heart.
They hauled Clymene, drifting and nearly drowning in that boundless bitter sea, up in one pull.
______
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