Afterwards, those mortals collapsed on the ground saw the endless auspicious procession in the heavens vanish swiftly and mercilessly, like a dream bubble pricked and gone.
Its retreat was much, much faster than its arrival.
If not for God-King Zeus still holding to mercy, unwilling to implicate these innocent humans,
and unwilling to see the newly built, memorable temple and altar destroyed on the spot, He would not have chosen to strike Prometheus so far from the sacrificial grounds.
Otherwise, the shockwave of that fall alone would have left no human below alive.
Even so, the sky-crashing, earth-shaking upheaval had already frightened every mortal out of their wits. They lay spread on the ground, unable to stand.
Around the altar, many raised their heads to the sky, tears sliding down their cheeks as their knees buckled and they collapsed into the dust.
Some wailed, some stared blankly, and many more, ignorant of the cause, prayed helplessly, begging that what had come was still the old grace.
But humankind had already lost their closest connection to the gods—and lost it forever.
Prometheus lay quietly at the bottom of that vast crater.
An indescribable pain flooded his entire divine body.
For the first time he felt absolute powerlessness; his consciousness seemed like leaves after a tide, thin and drifting.
It felt as if his whole divine body had shattered.
The God-King had not stripped away his authority or divine power, but had forbidden him from breathing the aether, and the web of Heavenly Order had screened him out completely.
Under such circumstances, relying only on the meager energy of the mortal world, the recovery of his divine body would take an unimaginably long time.
He was like a Poseidon torn away from the sea, a Helios locked beneath the earth.
His holy, mighty frame cried out in agony from "divine-starvation."
The God-King's punishment was harsher than he had imagined; the blow of the great thunder far more dreadful and painful than he had thought.
But the pain in his flesh was nothing compared to the despair in his heart.
However long the restoration, he could, in the end, be repaired.
But what humankind had lost was their only hope of surviving in this savage world!
Without that almost all-capable holy fire, how, indeed, were humans to live on in this perilous mortal realm?
How was hope to be restored to them?
In that moment, the first thing Prometheus thought of was not even that he could never return to Olympus.
He still thought of the humans he loved so deeply—of his… dear children.
How was he ever to face these dear children of his?
This was all his own doing, his own fault.
He lay silently at the cold bottom of the pit, his heart and eyes full of endless icy despair.
Foul dust covered his divine body, and he had no will to brush off even a speck.
For the first time in his divine life, he tasted the heart-rending bitterness of regret.
And even now, he did not yet know what fatal toxin his foolish "little cleverness" had poured into humanity's soul.
Too often, blind love brings the deepest hurt.
And indulgence is the blindest love of all.
His petty cleverness that day would bring humankind an eternal calamity.
A long, long time passed.
At last he again, barely, felt his divine body's presence.
Even if his heart was still full of despair.
Yet as he sensed the humans' panic and terror on the earth above…
he forced himself to rally, dragged that inwardly shattered divine frame upright, and tried to hurry back to the sacrificial grounds to calm his children's fear and helplessness.
Now that the sacred fire had left humankind,
if they also fell into utter panic, who knew how many more would die in chaos?
But when he tried to take flight, he was shocked to discover—
he could no longer leave the earth.
This was not merely a loss of the ability to fly.
It was that his body, from this moment on, had to be in constant contact with the earth.
To a greater or lesser degree, he had to be bound forever to the mortal dust.
He was permanently bound to this mortal world.
A deeper despair, like the cold chaos of Tartarus, fell over him completely.
But he had no time to taste this absolute bitterness; he forced his ruined divine body onward and rushed toward the sacrificial grounds as fast as he could.
No—"rushed" was not quite right.
For even running, his divine body could not lift off the ground.
One of his feet had to always touch the earth.
His posture was extremely strange, like some grotesque and miserable race-walk.
His "foreknowledge" had never foreseen himself in such a state.
The great Titan of "foresight," in that moment, was like a clumsy puppet, dragged to the ground by an invisible string.
He moved fast, but the faster he went, the more wretched he looked.
Like a bird with broken wings, flailing fruitlessly in the dust.
Worse even than mortals stumbling in panic.
When he saw the humans again, he was so bitter he could not utter a word.
The once-clean and tidy sacrificial grounds were now thick with dust.
In the terrifying quake not long before, several of the stone pillars bearing human hopes had crashed down, their shattered pieces strewn everywhere.
The grand and holy temple and altar were badly damaged, all covered in ash. This sacred place, only just finished, now looked almost dilapidated.
The more than three thousand human delegates were almost all sprawled in all directions.
The once-neat ranks and clean faces were all disordered and filthy.
Many of weaker spirit, in the face of such immense confusion and helplessness, had nearly collapsed entirely.
Silent tears ran down dust-covered cheeks, leaving two clear, hopeless tracks.
Prometheus's rapid approach kicked up a long dragon of dust behind him.
Some felt his arrival and, full of fear, looked toward that rolling wall of sand.
But when they saw who it was—Prometheus—their fear turned in an instant to deeper horror, even to… utter despair.
Since when…?
Since when did a god, normally spotless and immaculate, forever soaring above and looking down on all beings,
become like them—dusty and dirty, running across the earth on his own two feet?
And this god was their co-creator, the great teacher they had relied on unconditionally from the moment of their birth.
Prometheus, who had never run upon the earth, scarcely even walked upon it…
Now, so disgraced, so despairing, he had become despair incarnate. His very arrival was like a plague, bringing boundless despair to humankind.
Those present were the most courageous, capable, and insightful among all their tribes, the best at thinking.
From this string of world-shaking changes they had already keenly sensed a great terror had come.
His Majesty the God-King and the gods had left too quickly.
They had given humanity no oracle, no blessing.
The radiance had vanished, the auspices fled; their most familiar, closest god had fallen from the heavens like a meteor.
And now appeared before them in such a wretched state.
What they now saw was enough to make even the bravest chest tremble. This could not be anything good.
Something unimaginably dreadful must have happened in the heavens.
And for humankind, it could in no way be good.
Moreover, the cause very likely had something to do with their great teacher.
Some who were truly quick of mind had already thought that this likely had to do with the offerings.
When Prometheus had ordered them to cut the bulls in such a way, they had faintly felt something was off.
If they were to offer the best to the gods, why hide it under filthy hide?
If not…
Then…
But humankind had always absolutely obeyed Prometheus.
Even with doubts in their hearts, at such a sacred, critical moment, they dared not say a word.
Now, everything that had happened pressed one terrifying thought upon many hearts, a thought they feared yet knew was closest to the truth.
Their revered Prometheus…
Could he really have…?
A few who still had the courage struggled to their feet and staggered to stand before him.
With eyes trembling, soaked in fear, they looked upon this disheveled god.
Yet they dared not ask a single question.
They feared that unknown answer, so surely terrible.
Prometheus looked at these humans before him—like frightened birds—at their terrified, helpless eyes, their faces buried beneath dust and despair, the tears they could not stop.
He tried to speak, but his throat felt clogged with sand and stone; his sentences shattered again and again. His lips parted and closed, but no sound would come.
What could he say?
Tell them that because of his foolishness and self-proclaimed cleverness, humankind could no longer present offerings to the gods—
and thus could never again receive the gods' protection.
Tell them that even the holy flame they depended on to live, to ward off beasts, darkness, and cold, had been… reclaimed by the God-King?
Tell them that from this day on, when night fell, apart from the cold light of the moon, the earth would know no light?
Tell them they must endure endless freezing darkness and the constant threat of beasts in the night?
Tell them that from now on, any prey they caught could only be eaten raw, hair and blood and all—that they could never again taste the joy of cooked food?
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